TheBitsAndBlurbs

Pairing: Grace Ashcroft x Zeno Wesker

CW: None

Summary:Grace Ashcroft owed nothing to him, so why was she saving his life?

Author's Note: Finally! Chapter 2 is out. Not beta read and also on Ao3

The beeps of the heart monitor were steady, consistent, and most of all, grating. Engrained in her mind, it haunted her even when she wasn't in the room.

It had been a couple of months since the events at ARK. The DSO had taken Zeno, giving him the bare minimum of health care. Upon his wakening, should he ever awaken, he would be interrogated for any information related to the Connections. After that, Grace didn't know- they wouldn't tell her. Even if she were a DSO Agent, she suspected they wouldn't have told her anything regardless. In any case, they did have enough heart to let her visit every now and again. Then it became constant. His facility wasn't far from the office or her apartment.

Since Emily was still recovering from her own tribulations, the young girl was never far. Dempsey was kind enough to let Emily reside in one of the empty conference rooms during the day. Soon, a little corner was dedicated to Emily and her things. For a while, life was good. Work was progressing as well as it could be. The piles of files that littered her desk were slowly being tackled one stack at a time. Cases were steady, and not a whiff of biohazard outbreaks to be seen. For the small group of Raccoon City survivors who remained and suffered from the Raccoon City Syndrome, Rebecca Chambers had been able to synthesize Elpis from the samples she and Leon brought from the ARK.

With Christmas around the corner, the FBI agent found herself struggling to procure gifts for the young girl she took under her wing. If anything, Grace ended up getting a variety of board games and books, and hoped that this lot would be sufficient for what Grace assumed would be Emily's first Christmas. To anyone passing by, they would've seen Grace with an armful of bags, clearly struggling to get through to the doorway of her townhouse. Honestly, she thought that choosing her presents would be the difficult part, not trying to sneak her way into her own abode. Several times, she dropped various bits and bobs here and there, but she recovered them quickly by scooping them off the ground. It wasn't until she had her body two-thirds through the door that she thought she would be able to make it through just fine. That is, until a voice rang out.

"Woah," Leon strutted up the steps of the walkway. He had his jacket on, the collar pulled around his neck to protect his skin from the biting, freezing winds. "Did I miss a birthday or something?"

"Leon!" Grace yelped, her head whipping around so fast that it almost gave her whiplash. The sudden movement offset her balance, and she stumbled back. Bags and presents spilled behind her with a great clatter. "You- you're here! What's going on? Is everything okay at the DSO?"

"Yea, everything's fine. Here, let me help."

"Oh no- that's fine. You don't need to-"

"Grace, let me help." He crouched, moving to pick up the items in a swift manner. "Where did you want these?"

She paused, "I-I have an office down the hallway. Second door on the right. Emily doesn't go in there, so they should be okay in there."

It was when they finished tucking the boxes away that Leon revealed why he was there. "He's awake."

Grace didn't miss a beat, but now her body was on autopilot. "When?"

"Just this morning. The nurses found him sitting up... or at least trying to." Leon leaned against the kitchen counter. "Grace, he doesn't remember anything."

"Okay, so what?" Grace didn't want the answer. In the back of her mind, his pale face came to her. The whispers of promises of safety and security still playing on his lips. She wanted to believe him then, but she wasn't sure if she would harbor the same sentiment now. "Why are you telling me this?"

"The DSO wants to place him in your care."

Emily happened to be walking by when she heard Grace shriek, "What?!" The girl merely chalked it to Grace's work and continued on her way to the living room, passing the window. Across the road, a shadow loomed. Far too tall to be human, but passersby paid no mind nonetheless, instead opting to keep their head down and move around the obstacle. Emily had caught a glimpse of the looming figure, backtracking as to get a better look. It wore a fedora, its brim creating a downcast with enough darkness to obscure any remarkable features.

"Leon, are you insane?!" Grace's shrill voice echoed oncemore, startling Emily from her mini-investigation. By the time the young girl returned to obseve the figure, it disappeared from sight, "I have Emily here! I can't take care of both a meglomaniac and a child who just found out the world existed!"

The DSO had his hands up, gesturing for Grace to settle down, "Look, I know it's not the best circumstance, but you could consider him a second child given his condit-" He caught the small couch pillow thrown at him. "-ion. Grace, the Connections is still a prominent organization, one we still don't know about. Any intel we have is being blocked off. More than likely, they'll come after you again, and then we'll have the chance to get a hand in. One up them if we can. We're just trying to speed it up by putting Zeno in play. The sooner we get rid of these guys, the sooner-"

"You guys get rid of them, the better off the world is going to be. Yea, I know," Grace finishes with a huff.

"You made a promise, Grace, we all did when we stepped into this life. Are you gonna keep that promise?"

The sun had just begun to set when the three of them arrived at the hospital. Claire was there to greet them. It would've been comical to see both Leon and Claire side by side. As it would appear, the back of their coats had opposing but matching wings. Courtesy of Chris, of course. It started off as a gimmick, a gimmick went a tad too far. It started out with matching watches. Then, rings. This year had been jackets. The night that Leon returned from ARK, Chris and Claire were there to meet him at the hospital. For obvious reasons, Chris didn't opt to wait until Christmas to give the gift- the other man needed something to look forward to, and Claire needed a pick-me-up.

"Grace, it's good to see you!" Sherry said with a bright smile. She pulled the woman into a heartfelt hug, a smile gracing her features. The younger DSO felt as if she owed Grace for her life. Since being injected with Elpis, both the T and G Virus strain were wiped Sherry's body. The monthly physicals, the constant tests- all gone with a single injection. Sherry turned towards the scowling man beside her, grabbing his elbow in order to maneuver him to her side. "Grace, this is Jake. Jake, this is Grace."

Jake, who had been in Europe for the past several months, raced back to the United States when Sherry started exhibiting symptoms of the Raccoon City Syndrome. At first, it wasn't a concern, considering Sherry's body still contained and regulated one of the few known, original G-Virus strains. Her heightened immunity should have been able to fight the T-Virus with little to no issues, but fate, being as it is, decided otherwise. The only sources he had were mercenaries, so all Jake could do was watch the slow deterioration of Sherry's body. Most days, all he could do was pace in their apartment. One could say that there was a proverbial trench in their living space by the time Sherry received the cure.

When Elpis was synthesized, the offer was put on the table for him to receive it. An offer that was swiftly refused. Until his body started exhibiting the same symptoms as the Raccoon City Syndrome, he would gladly hold off until the time came. Sherry, ever the mother hen, carried an injector on her. A just-in-case, she mentioned.

"Oh- he-hello." Grace greeted. Her eyes briefly flashed up to meet his. After a moment, her social anxiety got the best of her, and she promptly moved her head away to avert her gaze. Sherry was right, Jake did bear some strong resemblance to Wesker.

"Howdy." Jake grunted, arms still crossed. "So I hear you're going to take care of dear old not-dad."

"Wh-who?"

"Grace," Chris butt in, "sorry to pull you in like this, but we're trying to get this transition off with the least amount of suspicion possible. Zeno's going home with you tomorrow-"

"Wa-wait, hold on-"

"Listen, the goal for today is to get you introduced." He handed her a file folder. "Everything about your lives are in here. Long story short: You two are engaged. It lasted for a week until a drunk driver t-boned your vehicle on the way home from dinner. Now, we secured your place. Units on either side will be occupied by DSO and-"

"And me," Jake pipes up.

"And Jake. Sherry too, if we're going to get technical." The older man, suddenly taking on his years, sighed. His voice carried an unseen weight, dragging Grace back down to Earth with every word. "Look, we know that the position we're putting you in is... difficult, but we've compensated for every outcome we could think of. Memorize the files in here: code words, phrases, safe house locations. We're going to take care of you and Emily, Grace. That much you can trust us with."

Zeno had just finished his meal when the door opened. For last day or so, he had seen people buzzing in and out of his roo. Each person, while different, harbored the same two expressions: anger and fear. His entire stance stiffened, his face carefully blank as blue eyes took in the image before him. Not an ounce of recognition harbored in his sharp features. From the photos he was given, then this must be- "Grace, right?"

Grace swallowed, nodding her head. She was avoiding his eyes. Her thumb pressed hard against her skin, dragging itself along the surface. The friction kept her grounded, "I am, ye- yea. How are you feeling?"

"Well," he simply told her, "they told me that you're my fiancé."

Pairing: Grace Ashcroft x Victor Gideon

CW: Age Gap Relationship

Summary: Victor gets close to Grace well before the events of RE: Requiem.

Author's Note: I'm alive! Just low key drowning from work. Not beta read. Also on Ao3

Silver glinted and gleamed against the rise of the dawning sun. Underneath his jacket, the grey three-piece suit did little to complement his skin, adding to his already pale demeanor. His lips were pressed into a thin line as he strolled towards the lobby doors. A hint of pink darted out, wetting the dry skin and thus providing temporary relief to the slightly cracked surface. To most, he appeared deep in thought, and he was. He kept thinking of Grace. From her messy wisps of hair to the tremble in her fingers, she plagued his mind, to which he both hated and adored her for it. For the last two decades, his work unknowingly brought him closer to her with every breakthrough. The parasite in him twitched, his head mirroring the sharp motion as he crossed the threshold of the FBI Headquarters.

Grace, as usual, arrived early to work. Her insomnia kept her awake most nights, only allowing for a few measly hours of sleep and an unfortunate feeling of lethargy for the rest of the day. It would be rare for her to reach REM Sleep, and when she did, the nightmares of her mother often spurred her into panicked consciousness. She dreaded going home sometimes, knowing that the only thing that could provide relief would also be the same thing that would cause her terror. Her feet dragged her to the elevator, walking the familiar path that she had grown accustomed to over the last three years. Tightly cradled in her arms, yet another stack of files and reports that she had been working on for the better part of a month. If she weren't pursuing the forums, then she would be deep in research. If her mother were living, a part of her believed that Alyssa would've made full use of Grace's access and whatever free time she had away from the office.

Hitting the up button with her elbow, Grace patiently waited for the elevator to descend. She hardly noticed Victor beside her, watching her, admiring her, and so much more. He looked down on her, almost tempted to scold her for her lack of awareness. In a twisted sense of irony, he himself unknowingly gravitated towards her. All of him desired her. His tongue darted out again, intent on sensing any potential pheromones emitting from the younger woman. Since the implant of the Nemesis parasite, his body had undergone... certain transformations he had not anticipated. The most recent one being the development of something akin to the vomernasal organ- a pleasurable surprise if he must admit. Victor often prided himself when it came to the observations of the human anatomy, a skill now more enhanced than before.

"Flo-floor?" Grace stuttered out as they both entered. The young woman didn't actually acknowledge his presence until she accidentally brushed up against his unusual reptilian-patterned coat. A small 'oh' escaped her lips as her body lurched to the side to avoid any further physical contact.

It had been several weeks since she had last spoken to the doctor. On the occasion, she would catch a glimpse of his towering form turning the corner. He had been at the forefront of her mind shortly after that encounter, more or less marveling at his state of being. The softness of his voice was unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome. There were times when she would hear him in her mind, often replaying what he had said and imagining what he hadn't. Her infatuation with the man started small, increasing by increments as days passed. It wasn't an obsession... yet. Not like anyone could tell her when it would become an obsession. That being said, deep-diving into the web to determine the size of his digital footprint was usually a decent indicator that the path down the rabbit hole had begun.

"The basement."

"Okay, su-sure." She pressed the button. Grace bit the corner of her lip, not bothering to tell the man that she was intending on heading to the upper floors. "So... is it a good morning? For you?"

Victor hummed. He had one hand on the strap of his leather satchel, one that looked comically small on him, while the other simply hung at his side. Every now and again, his fingers would twitch, itching to run through those tantalizing golden locks. In his mind, he saw himself pulling her head back- "Wou- would you mind if I stopped by your office? I have a couple of things I would like to discuss with you."

He blinked, "Of course, Ms. Ashcroft, as I mentioned, you are welcome at any time."

There wasn't much to discuss. More or less, it was just an excuse to have a cup of coffee, if anything. His compared to nothing like the coffee they had on her floor. She yearned for the warmth of the liquid that had once delightfully bloomed within her chest. Considering the circumstances of her first visit, she relished the drink but completely forgot about it in her haste to return to the office. Unbeknownst to her, Victor studied her then. Watchful eyes took in and memorized the way her throat bobbed up and down with each passing sip. His mouth watered, his thoughts wandering to its deepest desires. When he had first heard of Grace and her association with Oswell E. Spencer, he didn't understand the significance of her presence until the Connections brought several revelations to light. Now that she sat before him, none the wiser to what destiny had in store for her, it was then he decided to embrace her- the concept and the reality of her.

"So, how did you come to work he-here?" Grace questioned. A poor attempt at small talk, but an attempt nonetheless. She was never good at talking with people, preferring the anonymity of an online tag rather than face-to-face interaction.

Victor hummed, pouring his own cup and then hers. Deft fingers drew a vial from his inner suit pocket, pouring just a small amount of the blue, transparent liquid into Grace’s cup. An experiment, he surmised to himself as the liquids blended together until nothing of the blue remained. His head twitched once more. Another dart of ping against chapped skin. She didn't see it, but a ghost of a smile played on his lips. It almost mimicked that of the Cheshire's cat. "Think of it as a happy accident. Cream, sugar?"

"Three packets of sugar, please. An-and a dash of cream."

Their fingers touched for the briefest of moments, and Grace marveled at the coolness of his fingers. He looked... different. The changes were subtle- his skin and hair greyer than before, almost like the same pallor as a newspaper. That, and something seemed amiss with his eyes, even in the room's low light; his irises seemed brighter, if at all possible. Maybe that wasn't the word for it. Perhaps lighter? She could've sworn that they were brown before, but now they appeared to be borderline amber. His head tilted once more as she grew lost in his eyes, "Is there something you would like to discuss, Ms. Ashcroft?"

"Grace, ple-please." She quickly corrected- the trance now broken. A mental timer started in his head when plump lips kissed the rim of the cup, "And yea- I'd like some clarity on some of the data you included in your observations, Dr. Gideon."

"Victor,” he corrected as he settled comfortably in the office chair. Legs spread, more for show than comfort, he rested one elbow on the leather arm of the chair and settled his cheek against his knuckles. A predatory-like smile crossed his face, pale teeth shining against the warm light. Excitement brewed in his chest, “Ask away."

They wouldn't see each other for weeks after that. Well, to be more accurate, Grace wouldn't see Victor for several weeks after. Victor, on the other hand, would observe her from a reasonable distance. Then, if not him, then a hired associate. Since her inoculation with the virus strain, it has been imperative that her status be closely monitored each day. In his office, in a false bottom drawer, lay a sizeable file folder of observations. One that would find that it was added to nearly every morning.

It wasn't until another assignment brought them together that they started spending more time with each other. Nothing too extravagant in nature, but the duration and content of the assignment often caused Grace to meet with Victor in the early morning. After that, it became a wordless agreement to continue the arrangement. It progressed long enough for him to decide that a small futon couch would be beneficial in the long run. A black one, obviously- any other color would be a travesty considering the cozy aesthetic of his office. When it had arrived, he found some of the lab techs murmuring amongst themselves as the movers carried it through the lab. He remembered giving them a semblance of a glare when he had left the office that day. In any case, given the cramped size of his office, space proved to be a luxury. One he would sacrifice for Grace if it meant developing a natural relationship with the young woman.

Some mornings, he would find Grace down here long before their usual meeting times. Her flats or sneakers were neatly tucked underneath, her legs crossed on top of the cushions, and her laptop was balanced perfectly on her lap as she typed. He didn't dare sit on the thing for fear of breaking it and instead opted to work at his desk, thus creating a reasonable distance between them when both were in the office. There were a few times in which he passed that she had reached out for his hand before quickly retracting it as if she were shocked. An action reciprocated when he had the chance to see it. An action that surprised Grace when she saw him reach back. She never told him the significance of the action, but the young woman appreciated that Victor even returned it in the first place. It eventually became a habit for them to reach out to each other even when passing each other in the hallway or the lobby. Not a word or a glance, just a simple grasp. It had heads turning, of course. After all, no one really thought that two seemingly unlikely people would speak to each other, let alone touch. Sammi had much to say after seeing that development, but stopped soon after when she saw the older man glowering through dark eyes.

The chatter between them bore no real significance but still provided ample information about each other without prodding too, too deep. He had a fondness for reptiles. She had a small interest in aquatic animals. He explained the intricacies of human evolution, while she rambled about the technological evolution. He would tell her what he wanted out of his goggle, and after that, she would direct him on the upgrades she could make. A relationship of equals, one would conclude, considering the thoughtful banter and reflection of values after each revelation. Neither truly had anything to gain from the other. At least, that was what appeared on the surface. Victor had other interests in Grace, but none that appeared pressing at that moment in time. That is, until she starts exhibiting symptoms of a viral infection, but he hoped that would not come to fruition.

Every so often, the analyst would come to reside in Victor's office, even when the man was not there. She wouldn't admit even if asked, but in those times when she was alone, she'd tried to decipher the enigma around him. Piecing together stories from what little information decorated his office. He was a former researcher, that much she knew, but he hardly published any papers. The jewelry he wore- the death moth signet and the snake. A part of her was often tickled at the thought of this stoic, intense man leisurely scrolling Etsy for jewelry. Or perhaps, they were momentos of a prior relationship. These days in which she spent more time fantasizing rather than living, she rarely went home, opting for the comfort of Victor’s office before sneaking off to the office gym for a quick shower. When it would become prudent, Victor would eventually tell her about the small bathroom he does have in his office, one he often said was a storage closet if anything.

One winter evening, in his haste to further his research, the good doctor didn’t even see Grace as he walked to his chair. To say that it was a long day would be an understatement. Between Zeno's incessant intrusions and the incompetency of his support staff, even sheltering in his office at the clinic did little to ease his mind.The door had slammed shut behind him, startling Grace from her already troubled nap. His shoulders were hunched, his face obscured by the snakeskin hood. Water dripped onto the floor, leaving a small trail from his door to where he stood. The mask she had seen him wear before was tightly clutched in his large fingers- any tighter and the metal would give way under the pressure.

Her body was curled on the futon, scrunching inward as if trying to disappear from sight should he turn. Forcing her breath to be quiet and even, she silently observed him as he discarded his coat and loosened the Windsor knot on his tie in clear frustration. Each movement radiated with anger, often accompanied by a short huff or growl. Her breath hitched as she watched him remove his accessories. It almost seemed like a ritual of sorts- each ring meticulously removed and placed precisely in a neat row across the mahogany tabletop. Approximately two centimeters of space existed between each object. That customary silver chain he usually wore unclicked, making a satisfying noise as he laid it underneath the row of rings. His plaid vest was discarded and haphazardly tossed onto the back of his chair. A part of her felt like she was intruding the more he disrobed.

His shirt was halfway down his arms when he saw Grace lying on the couch. She had been ogling the long scar going down from jaw to lower abdomen whenever he turned just so. Her eyes quickly shut just in time, but in her mind, she pictured the long, jagged skin, wondering what it would be like to run her fingers alongside it. To her, a mystery. To him, that scar was a morbid reminder- one that only grows more distorted as time wears on. Most recently, it has become uncomfortably sensitive, and the constant stimulation made it difficult to sit still for long periods of time.

She heard him grunt. His shirt came all the way off before being swiftly replaced with a spare from his desk. The suit jacket he had carelessly tossed aside came to rest on top of her body. Considering his own body size, the jacket's length covered her own in its curled form. Instinctively, she curled into it further, nuzzling her head into the collar as her fingers tugged it upward towards her cheek. It smelled of him. An intoxicating scent that she couldn't quite place. A small sound escaped her throat, one that made Victor unexpectedly shudder with pleasure. He wanted to hear more.

A small part of Grace had hoped the man would turn to leave, but he didn't. A fact that elated the rest of her. Instead, the lights dimmed, and Victor found himself working in the dark. She didn't know when she nodded off, but Grace soon found herself in the midsts of yet another terrible nightmare. It started off the same; and no matter how many deviations her dream-self made, it ended the same too. A horrible gasp escaped her throat, her body seized as it struggled to remember where it was. In her mind's haste to reorient itself, she hardly recognized the figure hovering over her. It caught her as she nearly rolled onto the floor, barely fazed when her hands and feet kicked against his body.

Summary: Victor gets close to Grace well before the events of RE: Requiem. Pairing: Victor Gideon X Grace Ashcroft Warnings: Age Gap Author's Note: Well, this is an unexpected hyper fixation for sure. Not beta read

Grace had a routine. One, she wasn't that eager to break until her coworker, Sammi, had to send a courier to pick up a file of datasets she had neglected to retrieve the morning before. With the promise of talking through most of the presentation and a cup of caramel macchiato sitting on her desk by the time she got back, Grace was on her way to the lower floors of the building. The woman swore that these departments deliberately placed these labs in the basement to reinforce the stereotype of a horror film. The dim lighting was one thing, but the lack of people- she was ready to flee at a moment's notice.

A multitude of creative curses flooded through her mind as she discovered that the lab had not been unlocked yet. Given that 9AM had not yet struck, Grace opted to wait and see if anyone would show up. With any luck, they would hopefully understand the list of reports she was ready to rattle off... or at the very least, be willing to read the list that she did have in case she couldn't get through it without stuttering or cursing profusely.

The young FBI agent fidgeted with the file folder, attempting to find some way to pass the time as she awkwardly stood outside the Forensic Lab. The manila folder had been cradled against her chest, the poor thing nearly bent in half from the sheer pressure of her arms. In it, the contents of her latest assignment. Nothing too spectacular this time around- local law enforcement had expressed numerous concerns with the inadequate response to bioterrorism attacks. It wasn't as if it hadn't been considered- it's just that agencies like the DSO and BSAA were created for that purpose. However, quite like the United States Government, some checks have to be in place.

It didn't occur to her that someone was on the approach until his shadow descended upon her. Like a cool shower on summer's day, a chill ran down her spine and encased her body. Her head slowly panned up and came face to face with an exceptionally wide chest. It's not that the man in front of her was obese per se. It's just that there was plenty of him.

Further inspection upwards revealed his stone-cold expression. His mouth was set in an impossibly thin line. Grace couldn't imagine him smiling- he didn't seem like the type of person to express a jovial emotion at a moment's notice. Even if he did it of his own volition without any prompt of some kind, she doesn't think it would reach his eyes. The coldness of the hallway lights barely illuminated the amber colored irises. Hauntingly piercing, Grace thought to herself as her own blue eyes would dart up to meet his every now and again. Even with people she knew, it was always difficult to maintain eye contact.

In any case, the laptop in his clutches appeared comically small in comparison to the rest of his body. His fingers alone must take up three keys with a single press, and she really couldn't imagine him typing normally without several letters being pressed with even his pinky finger. How she couldn't hear his approach was also beyond her considering the size of his shoes.

"Morning." He greeted after several seconds of awkward silence. Contrary to what Grace had initially expected, for such a tall man, his voice was remarkably light, soft. Like a hunter leading prey,"If you don't mind..."

"O-oh," Grace had been standing in front of the door, "s-s-sorry. Good morning-"

"Is it?" Gideon questioned as the key turned in the lock. With a satisfying series of clicks, the lab door swung open. He tucked the key back in with one hand and caught the door with the other. Grace barely saw the cock of his head as she ducked under his arm to enter the room.

"I-I'm sorry?"

"A good morning." His lumbering form crossed the lab in mere steps, compared to the younger woman's journey, which took twice as long. He didn't wait for an answer; instead, he fetched a series of papers from his assigned desk. His thumb pressed against the corner of the report, forcing it towards him. Each page followed through; snippets of letters and graphs could be seen with each passing piece. A quick check to ensure that the papers about to be handed off were indeed the correct ones.

Grace gladly accepted the paper pile, haphazardly balancing it in one hand and the other file set in the other. A losing battle from the start, as it would seem. She could only watch in abject horror as they slipped from her grasp and floated gracefully to the floor. That last piece lingered as if to rub salt into the wound. Bastard. Despite that, however, she had no one but herself to blame for her own clumsiness.

Gideon knelt on one knee, helping her pick up the pile. With anyone else, he would not have bothered and would instead retreat to his desk. For Grace, he would kneel for her. Careful not to disorganize the scattered papers further than necessary, he arranged them in neat piles. "I don't imagine you're needed for another hour or so. You may use my office to re-acquaint yourself."

"Oh- oh no, I really don't think that's necessary."

"Please, I insist." The tone did not leave room for negotiation.

His office was quaint. Perfect for a woman of Grace's size, but not for Gideon. It was barely 150 square feet, and with the large wooden desk and matching chair, it seemed even more cramped. Save for a corner table and a coffeemaker shoved into the corner, there were no other objects of note. Nothing revealed who Gideon was, what interested him, or what drove him. No pictures or paintings littered his desk or the cream-colored walls.

Grace practically dumped the papers on his desk, a migraine already brewing from the stress of her day. Gideon, peaking at her every so often, as he loaded the coffeemaker, noted the look of discomfort on her face. She fumbled with her glasses, pushing them higher on her nose to keep them from slipping lower during the monotonous task of sifting and repositioning files. Every now and again, she would mutter to herself or shake her head. Why did she have to spill those papers? Why couldn't she have held on better to the damn things? And why does Gideon keep staring at her?

"May I?" Gideon spoke up. When he saw the puzzled look on her face, he gestured towards his face, mirroring the position of her glasses. Grace, unsure of what he intended but assuming it wasn't malicious, just handed it to him. Trading the warm cup for the spectacles, he examined the piece closely. Pinching the thin metal between his fingers, he gently bent the temple tips so the angle was a touch sharper than before.

It made a world of difference in Grace's eyes. Such a small change calmed her irritation and anxiety for the next few minutes. Mind focused, hands purposeful, the reports were corrected in what felt like no time at all. The coffee given to her tasted like sweet, sweet victory rather than bitter defeat. Gideon looked awfully pleased with himself as Grace prepared her exit. A ghost of a smile swept through his features- there and gone in an instant, "Do feel free to stop by again, Ms. Ashcroft."

"Oh- thanks. I do appreciate the offer an-and the help." Grace told him, not noticing that she had never introduced herself to him. With another quick thanks, she skittered out of the lab. What followed her, though, was that his amber eyes lingering on her fleeing form. His voice was soft, almost imperceptible, should anyone else have been in the room.

Swiftly picking up Grace's abandoned cup, his tongue darted out to lick the rim. "Perhaps, this is a good morning, Ms. Ashcroft."

"Thanks for helping me out on the report, Grace!" Her coworker piped up, the cheery tone slicing through Grace's thoughts like a well-sharpened knife. "I thought for sure Nathan was going to eat me alive, and Dr. Gideon sure gives me the creeps."

Nathan, a name Grace recognized as her supervisor... But Dr. Gideon- she could only surmise that that was the hulking form of the man she saw only hours ago. It was somewhat of a mystery as Grace had not heard his name before today. Every now and again, she would hear bits and pieces of information or names, but certainly not Gideon's. Grace nodded her head in acknowledgment, "Any-any time, Sam. Happy to help. I'm just glad we were able to get through the presentation in one piece. His research is th- thorough to say the least."

"Feel free to borrow him if you like," Sammi said, shoving leafy green pieces of a salad-dressing-soaked Caesar salad in her mouth. She was eating quickly, acting as if the bowl would disappear from her at any moment. Her next words were muffled by the food, but to prevent any spit from flying, three fingers were raised to her lips, but not touching. "He works at a Care Center in the afternoon towards the evening, so if you have any inquiries, they gotta be made in the morning."

Pairing: Zeno Wesker x Grace Ashcroft Summary: Grace Ashcroft owed nothing to him, so why was she saving his life? Author's Note: Not beta read

Grace Ashcroft owed nothing to him, so why was she saving his life?

The two landed hard on the metal ground, nearly missing the heaving and grotesque tentacle. Rolling several feet away from Leon, the landing wasn't graceful by any means, but he was alive, nonetheless. Zeno, who instinctively clung to the woman as they fell, landed on top of her. His face rested mere inches away from Grace. For a moment, they stared at each other. In that brief moment, a pang of irritation ran through him- everything he worked for, ruined by the ill-begotten machinations and regrets of a senile, old man.

Then the shadow of Gideon's lumbering form cast upon them. Like ants to a tower, they could do nothing but watch his approach from the entrance way. Zeno, being as vocal as he is about his opinions, would've been more than happy to admit that he had hoped Victor died in that insane motorcycle chase with Leon. In any case, perhaps the clone should've known better, especially considering that Gideon harbored the Nemesis Strain.

Going by the immediate color in the clone's cheeks, the mutated doctor knew Zeno was without his superhuman abilities, so any chance of retaliation would prove moot. Though a small part of Gideon had hoped his strike would remain true. Had it not been for Grace's untimely interference, he would have taken pleasure in seeing Zeno's head roll along down the platform. The mere thought of it alone was enough to tickle whatever humanity was left inside.

"Do you know where Zeno got his name from, Grace?" Gideon asked, his words drawing out with each step. Slow, methodic, calculated. They carried him to the console. His one good arm reached for the controls. "Zeno of Citium, the founder of Stoicism."

The clone growled, clearly not interested in the history lesson. He once went by a different name, but unexpected circumstances brought the origins of his creation, and as a consequence, he changed it to set himself apart. He did not want to be associated with the shadow of a man who had been dead for over a decade. Even when his triumphs were of his own doing, the legacy plagued his very being. His failures haunted him, a constant burden to Zeno. It was incessant. With Elpis, he would've been rid of all of it.

Seeing the cursed, amber vial still clutched in Grace's finger, he made a grab for it. Even if he did have his powers, he would be remiss to not utilize potential allies... or perhaps, in this case, distractions against Gideon. He would be damned if his resting place would be in the ARK.

Before Grace could even comprehend the events going on around her, Zeno wasted no time in injecting Elpis into the unconscious DSO agent. It was when Gideon had his back turned to them that Zeno made his move. He wouldn't risk his own safety with such a foolish attempt. Along with Elpis, Zeno's powers were reduced to nothing in less than a minute.

In the background, Gideon continued his monologue. Something about the meeting of an oracle, but no one in the laboratory truly cared for the words being uttered.

Grace quickly crawled her way towards them, moving to remove the glove from Leon's hand. The darkened tendrils and severe bruising caused by the latent T-Virus Strain retracted, leaving nothing behind but healthy cells. In her excitement, she temporarily forgot the situation they were in. "The antiviral- it's- it's working!"

"But not fast enough," Zeno muttered. Leon must have been in an advanced stage of production for the antiviral to take this long to have an effect. He knew that the man was his last legs, but he also attributed whatever previous injuries he retained towards his condition. In any case, they would have to make do without Leon if he doesn't recover in time. The clone removed his heavy coat, allowing it to pool around him. With what was to come next, he would need unrestricted movement. "Are you good with a sniper?"

She merely stared at him, trying to mount a response. Why would he be asking about-

"Grace!"

"I-I-I ne-never shot one before," she stammered out, "I-I've only shot a pistol."

Great. He shook his head in disbelief before tapping Leon's cheek a few times. To be quite frank, they were borderline slaps, but Grace wouldn't tell him otherwise, especially since the platform had begun shaking violently, "Now's a good time to wake up, Mr. Kennedy. I'd rather not carry you through this."

"Truth be told," the other man groaned, his eyes blinking rapidly to adjust to the light, "I was looking forward to being in your arms."

"Leon-" Grace nearly gasped.

Zeno snorted, "Clearly a joke, Grace."

Before either of them could continue the conversation, the platform gave way. Neither man uttered a sound, but Grace, on the other hand, screamed. The sound alone echoed through the laboratory, eventually mixing with the clanging of debris and screeching of metal.

Zeno found the woman clinging to him again as they slid down. He couldn't help but do the same, given the considerable drop. It was nerve-wracking, to say the least, but the bottom was soon drawing near. Zeno's body twisted, his body hitting the ground first and thus protecting Grace from the hard drop. He considered himself many things, but never would he identify himself as a non-chivalrous man. He groaned as his head hit the concrete exceptionally hard. Static and stars clouded his vision, encapsulating everything in insight. The next few moments were a blur that soon ended in darkness.

Grace's body ached with a vengeance. With all her injuries from the last 24 hours and now this, it was a miracle that she wasn't falling apart by the bone. In an effort to recollect her breath and gather her courage, she laid there, stock still. Zeno had cushioned her fall much to her chagrin, but he had been kind enough to take on the majority of the force. Rolling onto her side, she looked up in time to see Leon firing at Gideon. Part of her expressed relief to see that Elpis seemed to have brought Leon back to full strength. Her eyes then landed on a familiar form, lying limp among the rubble of the laboratory. "Zeno!"

She rushed towards his side, rolling the man on his back. His platinum hair was in disarray, and blood stained the back of his head. Other than the torn skin at the back, there was a sizeable scrape by his temple. Her fingers found their way to his neck. His skin was unusually warm, almost as if it were aflame. Like a drum, his pulse was steadily settling down. As a final check, she opened his eyes and found relief as they dilated.

Why did she save his life?

Her fingers shook as she removed Zeno's jacket. She firmly pressed his jacket to the back of his head. "I can't- you can't die here. I can't be the one responsible for this."

Soon, Leon's fight ended with Gideon, and the entire time, Grace stayed by Zeno's side. She had his head in her lap, internally justifying the position as a preemptive move. Should the fight have escalated towards their area, she would be ready to move him. Well, as much as she could anyway, he was nearly double her weight, and it was difficult enough to pull him to the side already. Some of the tears in his clothes were proof of the matter.

"You doing okay, Grace?" Leon asked as he approached them. He saw her nod, "Good- what about sleeping beauty over there?"

"He- he's breathing." She told him, her hand resting on his chest. To her, it was a rush of comfort and relief with each intake. "What're we going to do, Leon?"

Pairing: Robert House X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Fire

Author's Note: Tumblr's been doing this weird thing where if I save a draft, it posts it. In any case, Chapter 10! Also I finally have an account on AO3. Same user name as the blog

"I'm sure he'll let this slide; it's not like you've been late before," House assured you. Rob-Co's sunglasses sat snug on his nose, the wind whipping through his styled hair. This was one of the rare times he opted to drive with the hood down. It was during last week's escapade did he notice that you were rather fond of riding with the hood down. Despite the air rushing past your eardrums, you enjoyed the wind's caress against your skin. Relaxing, it was. Sometimes, it was almost serene. Like you could get lost in it.

You sat opposite him, clearly more focused on the consequences of your tardiness. Sure, you had been late several times in your life, but never for work. Being late for work temporarily carved a pit of dread in your stomach, and that was not a feeling you particularly enjoyed, "I suppose, but I just hate being late, you know?"

The cause of your tardiness: oversleeping. Earlier this morning, House had just gotten around to fetching his cup of coffee- the first of many he would've consumed- when he noticed that you had yet to get up for the day. Usually, you had a steaming pitcher ready for both him and Loft. When he had initially reached for the container, the lack of warmth alerted him to the absence of coffee. The corner of his mouth twitched. Peculiar.

You were a creature of habit. This was an anomalous event.

He waited a few more minutes before actually venturing into your bedroom. During that brief period of waiting, he believed that there was a slim possibility that you would've wandered in to start the brew, but alas, your lack of presence had spurred him to move. While he would not tell you, he did linger by your side, taking in the sight before actually moving to disturb you. The tip of his index finger brushed against your cheek. His other hand snuck under the covers.

It wasn't a frantic shake, but a gentle nudge that woke you. His soft voice roused you from your dreams. It wasn't until you fully focused on House that you realized that this was, not in fact, a dream. In your haste to get out of bed, you didn't notice where his hand had been resting.

Evidently, your alarm clock failed to ring around its usual time. At least, that's what he deduced when you were rushing to find clothes to wear. His nonchalant tone matched his relaxed posture from your bed. He was fiddling with your clock before placing it back on your nightstand. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a small screwdriver being slipped into his pocket. All things considered, you supposed that having tools in his pocket was the least strange thing he could carry.

In any case, you suppose it was a stroke of luck that you were late, but knowing House, you knew it wasn't.

As the car turned the corner, the sight before you elicited an awful combination of shock and dread. Had-Co Factory was in flames.

Small crowds of people were gathered here and there, some appearing haggard while others still maintained fear. All were covered in speckles of debris or spots of soot. As is customary with emergencies like this, safety blankets were handed out and wrapped around the shoulders of those who would take them.

Earlier this morning, while you were getting ready for the day, an alarm sounded through the factory. One of the assembly belts had started going haywire. It accelerated at an unexpected rate. Various objects that lined the conveyor were thrown against the walls, striking the occasional worker. The Emergency Shut Off proved useless, and no one could do anything to mitigate the incoming damage. From there, the chaos only escalated. Thankfully, someone had enough sense to sound the alarm and start evacuation procedures.

Anthony, who had just arrived at the office, attempted to defuse the crisis. However, seeing the damage being caused, he decided to cut his losses. It would've been a press release nightmare if he forced workers to stay during an emergency.

A clear smoke pillar slowly made its way into the Vegas sky. It almost looked like it was contributing to the storm brewing over the horizon. A clear hole in the building was visible towards your office.

"Jesus Christ," you ditched the car as soon as it came to a stop. You didn't even bother to wait for House and pushed past the police and firemen surrounding the area. "What happened?"

One of the secretaries, Antonia, had soot covering her face. She wasn't a particularly average woman- she was short, far shorter than most women. Her blonde hair now streaked with black and grey; vibrant green eyes now dull, "I- I don't- I don't know. Someone was yelling. There was an explosion."

While you weren't at Had-Co for a long time, you still had enough sense to get to know some of your coworkers. Even if it was under pretenses.

What was that saying? Fake it until you make it.

Antonia and Cindy proved to be excellent sources of information, and considering their close proximity to Anthony, getting a hold of his schedule and other plans made your job easier. The only caveat was that you had to expend a little more of your social battery than what you were used to. In previous work experiences, you were often the loner. Being a social butterfly was new territory for you, but one you fitted into easily.

You did a quick head count of the area. It was just the morning shift. The afternoon shift wouldn't be in for another area. Most of the staff you work directly with were present. All except- "Darrell? Where's Darrell?"

Antonia's head snapped up. "Darrell isn't here?"

They were the classic office couple. Darrell had just recently transferred into your department. He was working with one of the plant managers until he had asked to transfer to your department. To be honest, you didn't really care about his qualifications. It was hard enough to break into the industry, so you threw the kid a bone.

"No," but before you could even finish the sentence, you saw the smaller woman take off for the factory. "No, wait! Antonia!"

Anthony had just looked up when he saw you running after the woman. He caught up to you in no time, locking his arms around you as the woman disappeared into the flames. "No, wait!"

"I know, I know!" The other man hauled you back. He shouted for help as he brought you away. From the corner of his eye, the lone figure of Antonia reemerged. Hair fringed, dress burnt, eyes previously dull now wild with panic. Her body heaved, heavy coughs wracking her body. It didn't take long for her to collapse into the arms of the rescue team.

Summary: You were never meant to come to such a lavish Las Vegas corporate event. Your presence boggles House, a variable he never accounted for. He knew all the players at the table, every one of them except for you.

Pairing: Robert House x Fem!Reader

Warnings: None

Author's Note: Woo wee, accidentally posted this twice... the panic that over took 🙃 Bobby Loft = Bobby Apartment / Not beta read

This was an opportune time for him to leave. Leaving you and Loft to your own devices, the CEO made his way back onto the bustling streets of Vegas.

His car was not far, but his intended destination was.

Had-Co's primary factory. Located just on the edge of Las Vegas, far away from the high life of the Strip. That was what their father intended it to be. The glittering lights of the city were meant to be an inspiration, but to all who bid welcome here, it was nothing but a grim reminder of the unnamed caste system America built for itself.

Within the hour, House was walking through the grimy-cake factory floor of Had-Co, not the slightest bit impressed with the empire his brother sought to keep. The constant advertisements and micro-news reels often painted the construction industry as a regal and prosperous one. “Keep the American Dream strong!”, as the slogan goes.

Cliché, but no one could ever dishearten upon American patriotism without being pegged as a communist.

According to you, Anthony’s office wasn't exactly subtle in its location. Like many managers with an intense need to micromanage, he kept his office loomed over the factory floor. Many times, you described him scrutinizing his employees and their work habits, one hand on his hip and a half-drunk glass of whiskey in the other.

It was quite clear that his older brother kept their father's aesthetic but clearly lacked his mother's sense of grandeur. While House never really got to live the life their father wanted, he still recognized some of the memorabilia from the photos he had left. His father's class ring, his first Businessman of the Year Award, and a framed magazine cover that was enlarged to the size of a movie poster. On it, their father on Times Magazine.

Even if their father had survived, the younger sibling firmly believed that he would have been better off without their influence, regardless.

Now, considering Anthony was in an alcoholic stupor and the majority of the onsite staff ranked Had-Co’s work environment as exceptionally poor, the chances of being interrupted were minimal. In any case, masquerading as his brother wouldn’t be that difficult a task, all things considered. Lower his voice a few octaves, add a touch of gravel to his throat, and stay in the dark- no one could tell the difference.

House ascended the stairs, taking one last glance across the factory floor. Why his brother wanted this was beyond him. Perhaps he never intended to create his own way in the world, not when it was far easier to work off of another.

He got to Anthony's desk, settling himself in his brother’s chair. Firm, vaguely uncomfortable, and in no way, shape, or form conducive to his posture. All his resources, and he didn’t have the capacity to get a more comfortable chair. He made a mental note to send him a new one for Christmas.

The holotape slid into the terminal port with a satisfying click. Immediately, the screen came to life, and with a few simple keystrokes, he was in.

Schematics, employee files, budget meetings, business emails, but nothing gave him concrete evidence that Anthony was behind the attack. Not that he expected it to be obvious but a man could hope for an easy answer… As if anything were ever easy, whenever he began taking matters into his own hands.

Taking whatever he could from Had-Co’s database, House slid the holotape into his lapel. One last search through his office, and even with a second search, nothing of true significance was found. Something that truly irked him so. Perhaps he could use Anthony's infatuation with you as another means of extracting information. It wasn't an appealing idea but it would yield results one way or another.

Before he finally left the factory, House took another holotape, this one a little more beat up than the other, out of his pockets and slotted it into a nearby terminal. An inconspicuous little thing with one hell of a kick.

He couldn't wait to see where that would lead.

In the meantime, you and Loft were sitting in the shared space. You were munching away on favorite snack, a habit you picked up when you were nervous. To be honest though, you really had nothing to be nervous about. That was what you were telling yourself.

Unexpectedly, Loft didn’t deny the inquiry. In fact, the first thing he did was to double check House was not in ear range.

"So,” you took a sip of water to wash down any food left in your mouth, “how did you get into this anyway? Have you always known each other?”

“Truthfully? I met him during a product demonstration,” Loft leaned back in his chair, “I made some suggestions- only, I didn't know it was him at the time.”

“Yiiiikes. Can’t imagine how awkward that was.”

“On the contrary, he took the criticism well. On the next update, the suggestions I made were implemented. From there, we just worked together. It wasn’t until one of the developers on the team mistaken me for House, and you can guess the rest.”

You nodded, “So this has been going on for a year now, yes? If you have his name, why didn’t he just take your’s?”

“Oh, Hughes? I’ve got no idea,” Cigarette smoke descended from his lips and nostrils upon the last word. It had yet to dissipate as he took another long drag, “Had it long before me. In any case, I do wonder, what do you plan on doing with this information?”

Plan? You didn't exactly have a plan nor did you need one. The next sentence you uttered was laced with humor so dry, there was a distinct possibility he could have mistaken it for the truth. “Actually, I plan on extorting him for money. Secret like that is worth a million bucks you know.”

“Fine,” the double scoffed, “don’t tell me.”

“If anything, Bobby, I was just looking for the truth. All this,” you twirled your hand, “espionage- I don't care for it. However, he's- Robert appears to be deeply engrained in it. It's personal for him, and he doesn't hide it well.”

“Would it had made a difference if he came right out with it? Told you everything you wanted to know."

You pondered did a moment, “Maybe? I would be a little more off put than I am now, but I think everything else would be the same.”

"I think he'd be relieved to hear you say that."

"Yea?"

"Most certainly, he doesn't tell people for a reason." Loft stretched, "It's late, you and I should get some sleep, but first…."

Before you could ask, he left the room and returned moments later with a light green shirt. You caught it with ease. It was delightfully soft, “CIT? Is this your’s?”

“Mine is in my room,” Loft shook his head, “This is House’s. On loan from when I did a press release there. Never really had the chance to return it.”

“I would ask why you didn’t just use yours, but I doubt think I would care as much… No offense.”

“No offense taken. Have a good night.”

“Thanks, you too!”

With that he left the room, and you made your way back to your room. House's shirt was haphazardly tossed onto the back of your vanity chair. Unceremoniously collapsing in into your bed, you waited for sleep to come.

You suddenly woke up to the sound of hammering and other sorts of hard to ignore ruckus. Throwing on an oversized shirt, an old boyfriend's from University you just never returned, you wandered into the foyer in search of the noise.

It sounded like… construction? But to the best of your knowledge, you did not remember House saying anything about renovations. Part of you wandered if this was some reaction to last night's events - someway to relieve frustration perhaps.

The subject at hands stood at the top of the stairs. He watched the crew work, one hard in his pocket while the other held a steaming cup of coffee. He did not sleep a wink last night so he put himself to work when he got back from the factory.

Schematics and floor plans drawn up within the hour. A late-night / early morning favor pulled from a local construction company that originally laid the pavement for the first iteration of the Lucky 38. The owner of that business was former friends of his father, and consequently, House's godfather. Rarely did he need help from others, and when he did, House had a damn go od reason for it.

Everything was going well until he saw the wandering eyes of one of the younger men gaze upon you. It wasn't hard to spot the transition from being locked in one's work versus being distracted by… what House considered a heavenly sight.

Any higher, and the shirt would reveal parts of you that House dreamed of seeing. And if he had his way, which he most certainly would, he would be seeing all of you soon.

Quickly, he crossed the room to cover you from the rest of the crew. For a brief moment, his body pressed against yours. An intimate display in order for his claim to be staked.

His lips touched your left temple before he turned you around by your shoulders and guided you to the kitchens. The older man was careful to avoid hitting your heels with the tips of his shoes. “Coffee, darling?"

"Mm, yea," your voice was small, rough. A telltale sign you had been sleeping until now, "Coffee's good."

“Is that my shirt?”

Summary: You were never meant to come to such a lavish Las Vegas corporate event. Your presence boggles House, a variable he never accounted for. He knew all the players at the table, every one of them except for you. Pairing: Robert House x Fem!Reader Warning: None Author's Note: Not Beta Read. Smaller chapter!

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

House sat at the end of the bar. If looks could kill, Anthony would be dead several times over.

By the end of the night, you were still quite sober as compared to Anthony who was stumbling to get to the door. House followed you two out, tossing the money for tonight's dinner on the countertop. He was discreet, however, when leaving the restaurant. The car he took you in was just around the corner.

"Can I-" The older man hiccupped before clearing his throat, "Can I take you home?"

"Oh, I don't think you're going anywhere in this shape."

You had given Anthony the address of a nearby library so as not to arouse suspicion should you have given him the address of the Lucky 38. Besides, it was no secret that you have an overt fondness for literature. Giving him the address of a library was par for the course of the persona you built at Had-Co.

House was watching nearby. He was parked away, just out of sight of you and Anthony. While you didn't know it, he had slipped a small beacon into your bag just in case he lost track of you on the way to the restaurant. Though, lo and behold, the fine dining place he did take you to happened to be one of the ones House owned.

Not like any of the staff knew his appearance, considering all that he had done to mask his own person.

To say you were surprised would be an understatement. You had been on your way to the restroom when he suddenly pulled you aside. A small yelp escaped your lips; one he quickly muffled by pressing his hand to your mouth.

"Hello, darling," he breathed as his hand dropped. He couldn't help but smile when you laughed.

"You know that's stalker behavior, right?" You joked. Despite the jovial tone, you were relieved that he was here, and it showed. "I hope you're here to drive me home later."

"Among other things," House kissed your lips, "if it gets too much, tap your drink three times, I'll come get you. If all goes well, and you're ready to leave, tell him you have someone picking you up. Let's not take chances tonight."

You raised an eyebrow, "What's wrong? You don't want to gamble your odds."

"Absolutely not. Not when I don't know the next play." The man kissed your cheek and left you to finish your original task.

Now you find yourself outside. No one paid mind to the man who could barely stand on his own two feet, let alone the lone woman supporting him. You couldn't imagine that this was an uncommon sight by any means.

You readjusted your grip so his arm was over your shoulders. Reaching around his side, you tried to stand upright. "My roommate is picking me up. He can drive you to your apartment."

House pulled up in his car, sunglasses perched on his nose. He hasn't seen in Anthony in decades, and more than likely, the older sibling wouldn't recognize him. Despite his irritation, he greeted the two of you verbosely. "Well, hello there! Care for a ride?"

"Robert, you're going to have to help me. He is quite," you stumbled a couple steps forward, "heavy."

The ride back was awkward to say the least. You sat in the front seat, the wind caressing your face since neither of you was getting far very fast. The Had-Co CEO was slumped in the back after being unceremoniously dumped by the Rob-Co CEO. You couldn't help but cringe as his body hit the leather interior.

House was sitting in the front seat, both hands gripping the steering wheel. The whites of his knuckles grew paler the harder his grip became. His eye twitched several times. All it would take was one little slip of the wheel. One tiny slip.

"Thank you," your voice was small, but despite the quiet thanks, it was enough to snap him out of his angered stupor, "for driving us back… and for watching over me during dinner."

"Of course," the tension fell from his shoulders, "I must apologize for placing you in such precarious circumstances."

You hummed, fiddling with the sleeves of your shirt. "You don't like him very much, do you?"

"No."

"Any particular reason?"

"None I care to divulge while the subject of the conversation is slumped in my backseat."

The ride to the apartment was uneventful.

Robert grunted as he lifted the other man out of the car. You weren't joking; he was heavy.

You led the way, Anthony's keys at the ready to unlock the apartment door. Every now and again, you would look behind you to see if they were keeping up with your pace.

Unfortunately, the apartment building lacked a functioning elevator, so taking the steps was the next best thing. It would've been fine if it were two flights, but not five. By the time all of you reached the third floor, House was stumbling just as much as his unfortunate companion.

"Next time," he huffed, "we're calling a cab. Can you hold him for a second? I need to take off my jacket."

Try as you may, Anthony managed to slump to the floor. House merely rolled his eyes as he handed you his coat and rolled up his sleeves. What a ridiculous predicament that the three of you found yourselves in.

Anthony's apartment was... small. Smaller than his closet if House is being honest. Dishes, which had presumably been there for weeks, going by the state of it... and insects. A few of his clothes littered the floor, and some of the furniture. Not the prestigious life he thought Anthony lived in.

House picked up a lone picture frame. Anthony and their father. House's mother was holding him off to the side.

"Hey," you peered around the corner, pausing when you saw House set down the photo, "you okay?"

An odd question, "I am."

"Oh, it's just-" you gestured to your cheek.

House mirrored your touch, pulling his fingers away to see the remnants of a single tear.

Loft was enjoying his last drink of the night when you two walked in. You had House's jacket on your shoulders. He still had his sleeves rolled up and a cigarette in his mouth. Right after he left the apartment building, the urge to smoke a cigarette became much stronger than before.

"Care to divulge how the night went?" Loft teased as House walked straight past him. He didn't miss the glare sent his way.

You honestly looked sheepish as you approached the double, "Anthony's a borderline alcoholic. Robert had to help me carry him to his apartment."

"Sounds like dear, ol' Anthony," Loft smirked, finishing the last of the glass. He noticed the perplexed look on your face, "Something the matter?"

Summary: You were never meant to come to such a lavish Las Vegas corporate event. Your presence boggles House, a variable he never accounted for. He knew all the players at the table, every one of them except for you. Pairing: Robert House x Fem!Reader Warning: N/A Author's Note: Another chapter! Not beta read. Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

The descent into madness begins with a simple push a button.

House couldn't help but grin, tapping the 'Enter' button with a sense of finality. He never pictured himself as a vindictive person. As it stands, he would claim that his motives were purely for the sake of financing his own experiments. A means to an ultimate end.

The House Fortune was the size of a thimble in comparison to the accumulated wealth Rob-Co had brought him. This next series of moves is the proverbial icing on the cake.

Anthony once claimed that House would have run Had-Co into the same grave as their father. Bit by bit, he took everything away from his younger sibling. Left him with nothing but the money in his pocket and the clothes on his back. One could say that Anthony was pushing House to disappear into the abyss of poor obscurity, but it was a fool's task in the end.

House wouldn’t take everything, not at once. It would be a slow, enjoyable picking. He would take his brother’s empire down factory by factory, product by product. He wanted him isolated, defeated. He wanted the older man to writhe in the ruins of his kingdom.

Leaning back in his chair, House watched as the algorithm began to run its calculations. In a way, he had gotten what he wanted and more. When the rest of the world refused to aid him in his time of need, the glittering lights of Las Vegas kept him close to the sky. Now he would surpass the wings of Icarus and bring the city to the stars.

He lit his third cigarette of the morning. A poor habit, but one he has long since grown used to. If the stress or his inventions won't kill him, then perhaps the cigarettes will.

Tossing the lighter onto the console, his mind wandered to you.

You.

He still hasn't figured you out yet. The algorithm changes dramatically when you make an unexpected move. Vexing. Exceedingly vexing.

Then again, the algorithm is built around the assumption that people stick to their habits. As House sees it, people have always been easy to read, therefore easy to predict. Take those repetitive actions, feed them into a stable environment, and now you have your control group. Introduce small changes, watch for consistent patterns, and monitor for potential variables. Define your method.

Smoke fell from his lips, spilling into the air like a gentle waterfall.

His fingers pressed to his temple. Nevertheless, despite the boundless ideas revolving around his mind, you sneak in every now and again.

To be quite honest, he had not anticipated pursuing a relationship this fast. The silver lining to this was that he would be able to observe you in far more intimate circumstances.

While House would never admit it, he enjoyed having your attention. He enjoyed having someone depend on him. It was addictive, surprisingly, that need for your attention. If he could, he would keep you here within the Lucky 38.

He took another puff, glancing towards the virtual chambers behind the wall.

An opportunity perhaps.

In the meantime, you were with Anthony. For the last several weeks, he had been desperately vying for control of his company. The stakeholders were spiraling, and his efforts to rectify the losses to Rob-Co were providing more doubt than assurance. Some days, he would spend more time in his office than in his actual residence. His wife had long since left him, citing that his love for his father's company was more in surplus than his love for her. Ultimately, there really was no reason for him to go home anymore.

You rhythmically tapped your knuckles against your thigh. Your lips mouthed to the words of your favorite song. While you applaud Cindy's idea for a photoshoot, you didn't realize that you needed to be there when it happened. If anything, you were hoping to peruse Anthony's office while he was out. The man barely left, giving you little opportunity to go sneaking into his computer.

Sometimes, you would make excuses just to be in his office, waiting for an ample opportunity to slide into his chair. It's not like you could've left a holotape in there that he would've seen in an instant. Unfortunately, you fear that you may have given Anthony the wrong impression. Especially since the one day you came to work and found your desk moved into his office.

It was during an autumn afternoon when you were at your desk that Cindy approached you. The former Rob-Co employee had suggested that they have a candid photo at Anthony’s old high school.

According to her, he had been on the track team and consistently donated a significant sum to the school‘s sports program. It was no secret to the public that Anthony often went above and beyond for the welfare of children. Naturally, his actions could be used to improve public approval and, therefore, product sales. At the very least, provide some additional labor to his factories.

So, now here you all were.

By the time Anthony had gotten a break from the track, sweat clung to his clothes. Droplets trailed down his forehead in what seemed like waves. He huffed, fighting to still his breathing into a more regular pattern.

“We’ve got a few good shots, but I think Cindy’s wants to do a few more after her review,” You handed him a water bottle, “I figured we could talk about the contents of the article while they’re getting prepped.”

He hummed, “You know, everything doesn’t have to be about business, yeah? Come on, let’s walk the track.”

You could hardly protest, seeing as he started walking away from you. Looking towards Cindy and the photographer, you gave them a final check before jogging to catch up with your boss.

"So, any plans for the night?" Anthony questioned as the two of you began walking the track.

You shook your head, "Not tonight. Figured I could make some dinner, read a chapter or two..."

He nodded his head, “Well, that's good, or you could go on a date with me."

You nearly stumbled over your own feet. "Oh! I don't- I'm not sure-"

"You just said you didn't have any real plans tonight. What's the harm in a small dinner? My treat, of course." He gave you a playful nudge. "Don't tell me you're trying to be bashful now? After all those times you found excuses to see me."

Oh yea, definitely the wrong impression... You mentally kicked yourself as you stammered to accept his proposal. How would you explain this to your dear, Mr. Hughes? How would he take it?

Would he merely stare at you? His expression stoic and still. So much so, any passerby may mistake him for a statue. You've only seen it once, and that was when he and Loft were discussing the latest board meeting.

As it turns out, the answer would be, yes.

The moment you came home to the Lucky 38, you went straight to House, who had been mid-conversation with Loft. Honestly, it really just came out as a jumble of words. At first, it was an unintelligible string of noises until you gave yourself a moment to breathe.

The silence was thick with tension.

Pairing: Mycroft Holmes x Fem!Reader Warning: Blood, death Author's Note: You fake your death... and you kill Magnussen. Oh look, a Part 2 of the Guardian Series. Not Beta Read Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3(?)

The plan was simple.

Get shot. Play dead. Kill Magnussen.

But now your part was done. The big, bad proverbial wolf was dead. No houses came tumbling down.

You knew Mycroft would've disapproved of your plan, and you knew you needed to get rid of the only pressure point that kept him under Magnussen's thumb. Yourself.

Sherlock detested the idea, convinced that the only way to put Magnussen down was through the Game. It took some time, but he, too, came to the same conclusion you did. Magnussen had to be killed. His empire, like Moriarty's, would crumble without the emperor to lead.

Mary was a good shot. You had Sherlock as proof as that. John was quick to administer first aid when you crumpled.

For the first time, you had seen Mycroft shut down. He was frozen as people scrambled for cover.

The scar was long, but in the grand scheme of things, it was a small price to pay for the freedom of two. It took a couple month of recovery. You had to pull a few favors with some old acquaintances to keep your life hidden.

Now, you stood in the living room of the Holmes Residence.

Mycroft merely stood there. The perfect mask of stone dawned upon his features. Even at the best of times, you could never really determine what he was thinking, and that unnerved you.

He took one step forward, and at the same time, you took one step back.

"Don't," he said softly, "I just need-"

His fingers graced your cheek. A small gasp escaped his lips. The touch of his warm skin to your cool cheek was enough to determine that this was, in fact, real. "My god, you're really here, aren't you? This isn't a dream."

You nodded your head, searching in his eyes for his next move.

He let his head droop, his forehead coming into contact with yours. "You can't- you can't ever do that again." his voice was low, whispering, desperate, "No matter the circumstances. My heart broke, and I don't believe I can survive it a second time."

Sherlock merely watched from the door. He turned to leave, but then- "Thank you, Brother Mine."

Pairing: Mycroft Holmes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Blood, Death

Author’s Note: Felt like writing a badass reader and I needed a break from writing Work Instructions (hint: it's been 4 hours of non-stop typing WIs 🫠). As usual, not beta read...

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3(?)

It was odd being unemployed. Well, perhaps retirement may be more of an apt term. Though, whoever heard of retirement at your age.

To be honest, you had thought you would spend your the rest of your life working from contract to contract. People, who you've met under similar circumstances, were keen on telling you that you would never get to leave the industry. It was just unheard of to switch from one job to another.

Then you met Mycroft Holmes.

It was a chance meeting. He accidentally bumped into your person, an uncharacteristic moment of distraction as he scrambled to have at least a singular cup of caffeine before that morning's meeting. A blunder that ended with scalding coffee on your bare chest and a mile-long apology. Knowing it would be uncouth to just leave you be, Mycroft awkwardly stood outside of the bathroom door as you worked to dry yourself and clean your shirt. Ultimately, he ended up accompanying you to a nearby store to replace the garment all together.

From there, you and he met at the same place, at the same time, every morning. It was like clockwork. You knew you were running late if he stood outside the cafe with a steaming cup in hand.

When he had asked about pursuing a relationship, it was during a quiet winter morning. Hindsight being 20/20, you should have stayed in your apartment, but you couldn't risk missing your daily meeting.

Every now and again, you would think back to that moment when he slipped on a patch of ice coming out of the shop.

Folding the last of Mycroft's laundry, you heard your phone ring. The cheery tone cut through a particularly tense scene of your favorite show.

Odd, an unknown number. No one ever called your phone. Ever.

"Think of this as a courtesy call," the voice spoke, "the details have been sent to your phone."

The call ended. Pulling the phone away from your ear, you saw several images that had been sent to your phone: Mycroft, Sherlock, & John. Each gagged, bound, and carried into an unknown building. Seeing that each image focused more on the subjects, there wasn’t much to deduce about the buildings.

Somehow, in the grand scheme of things, you weren't exactly surprised. Call it a workplace hazard.

The unfortunate reality is that you would have to contact Mycroft's employers.

Your fingers typed away to complete one, singular word.

Yarrow.

The text was sent off without so much as a second thought.

You huffed.

So much for retirement.

Pain blossomed across his cheek as the guard's knuckles dragged against his skin. It made his head spin for a moment- a rather hard knock into the reality of his situation. He racked his mind, attempting to remember what he had been doing before being unceremoniously woken up to his dingy surroundings.

Meeting with Lady Smallwood. Then Sherlock. Then nothing.

"There he is," the gruff voice said, a tone of glee laced in his statement. "I was afraid that the drugs may have been too much when we took you. Hard to know what dosage to use when there's so little about you to gleam from."

Mycroft did not bother to answer. He merely looked at the man incredulously. So many enemies- this one may have slipped from his surveillance. Either that, or he wasn't important enough to truly see him as a threat.

At a glance, this was not someone he immediately recognized from the numerous files he's seen over the years. Though, upon closer inspection, he did bear some familiarity... but from where?

Another hit brought him back to the present. Boorish. Truly.

So many ways to make a man talk, and this is the method he chooses.

"Am I supposed to be begging by now?" Mycroft questioned, cracking his neck. His hands were bound to the chair he was strapped to. Duct tape, going by the feel of his skin pinching. If it were ropes, he would expect more friction against his wrists, not constant pressure. Considering he had woken up with his hands feeling numb, one could surmise he had been there for quite some time.

"Give me a few minutes. Might be a different story," The man grasped Mycroft's shirt collar. "Tell me about the Guardian Program."

Before the older Holmes could even open his mouth, panicked shouts could be heard from down the hall. Without enough information, going by the vocal tones, Mycroft could only guess he wasn't out long enough for them to take him out of the country. If his assumption was right, then perhaps escaping would not have to be as difficult as he anticipated it to be.

The chair was wooden, but sturdy. Simply falling on it would not break it apart. However-

Kicking his knee out, Mycroft headbutted the other man. Hard.

He groaned, the pain shocking him back to reality. He had barely looked up in time to see the man crumble to the ground. Getting his knife would require some finesse as it would seem. He couldn’t wait to see who was causing the ruckus. Not when he couldn't assess the true danger level he was in, and especially since it’s been a decade and a half since he has had to do field work of any kind.

Shuffling towards him, he managed to awkwardly crouch by his side. It took a couple of painstaking minutes, but he found what he needed to release himself. With his hands and fingers as numb and weak as they were, cutting the tape proved challenging. A challenge laced with a litany of curse words.

The tape had barely come off of his skin when the door opened. Pressing himself against the wall, he waited for the intruder to make their way in. Just a couple more steps...

You spun as the door slammed, barely managing to dodge the blade. Its sharp edge cut across your cheek. Deep, but not a pressing issue.

"Y/N," Mycroft gasped as you stumbled back, "I'm sorry, I-"

You held a finger to your lips, pushing him back as you heard the sound of more men approaching. Your magazine had approximately 5 bullets left, but on the bright side, you had brought more in your pack. That being said, you had already used one upon your entrance here.

The door opened.

You fired several shots into the door, knowing fully well you hit your targets as blood splattered against the wall. Going by the sound of their voices, there were 3- well, 2 men left. You reloaded quickly as you crouched low. The discarded magazine went flying. Your fingers were quick to slide the next one and rack the pistol.

Catching the first before he could collapse to the floor, you grunted as you struggled to push his body back up as a human shield. It was effective in guarding your transition from behind the door into the doorway.

Two quick shots put the rest down, and a third assurance shot into the first man was enough to satisfy your and Mycroft's safety. Pushing the limp body forward, you didn't bother to watch it crumble to the ground.

There were more men near by, but they weren't a concern just yet.

Turning, you could see Mycroft take on a green pallor. Despite the gruesome scenes he has seen in his life, seeing a life taken in person just had a different, visceral reaction. The back of his hand pressed against his mouth. His stomach lurched for only a moment before he was able to reacquaint himself.

Mycroft could only watch as you dragged the bodies back inside the room. The blood smear made him even more nauseous, but there was really nothing to be done as the two of you situated yourselves. You gave him your pistol, switching to your primary weapon. One of your personal favorites: a Marlin 45-70. The capacity was small, but you weren't expecting to encounter an army.

Summary: You were never meant to come to such a lavish Las Vegas corporate event. Your presence boggles House, a variable he never accounted for. He knew all the players at the table, every one of them except for you.

Pairing: Robert House x Fem!Reader

Warnings: None

Author's Note: For all the readers keeping up with the story, I truly appreciate the support! This is a first for me writing-wise. Most of my stories are, as the username entails, bits and blurbs. In any case, here is the next chapter! As usual, not beta read. Bobby Loft = Bobby Apartment

Missed a Part? Find them here:

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

Fair flower, that doust so comely grow,

Hid in this silent, dull retreat,

Untouched thy honied blossoms blow,

Unseen thy little branches greet:

No roving foot shall crush thee here,

No busy hand provoke a tear.

You traced the words of Philip Freneau's The Wild Honeysuckle. The literary critic in you broke down each line in the stanza. From form to meaning, you disassembled the poem before you piece by piece. Fair flower, you were one within its isolation.

In a world as crude and chaotic as this one, no one could blame you for hiding within the pages of books.

Legs kicked up on the armchair, you sunk lower into the cushions. The leather squeaked under your body, the sound somewhat making you cringe. Nevertheless, you returned to the world of Freneau and finished the rest of the poem. With all the writing that you do and the audience you target, you couldn't help but mourn the elegance of subtlety.

Perhaps you should start writing again. Flex those muscles that have long since atrophied from your school days.

The anthology now rests on your chest. It was one of six that had been gifted to you on a family Christmas morning. Staring out into the Vegas city, the twinkling lights of the city mesmerize you with each blink. Beautiful, yes. Hypnotic, most certainly.

Many times, you would catch House watching the city just as enraptured as you are now. He had a passion unlike anything you had ever seen. He and Loft pushed each other to go beyond boundaries and to surpass their limits. Their dynamic was strange at times, almost as if House were more influential than the very man who disguises himself as the other.

Speaking of the man, he was nowhere to be seen. After dinner he had muttered something about his lab before disappearing promptly. For the last several days, he had been agitated about something. You weren't sure what it was, but you knew it positively irked him so. Loft told you about his twitches, but you never really saw it until House was discussing a blip in the program. It wasn't exactly a subtle twitch.

He would snap at you every so often before sheepishly apologizing for his attitude hours after the fact. While hurt, you were patient with him. No harm, no foul- you understood the position and stress he was under.

The first couple of times, you promptly left the room to let him cool down. Loft would watch; an eyebrow raised as House lingered outside your door with a peace offering in hand.

That being said, this was the rare instance in which you had the apartment to yourself for the evening. Not that you would tell that to House or Loft, but it was certainly a nice change of pace for once. Since you started your stint at Had-Co, you didn't realize how much you considered the Lucky 38 your home until you started to miss it during the day. Despite the other two men not being your family, it was still nice to have someone to come home to.

House as expected, became your confidant. When time permitted, you sat around the man, doing idle work or reading novels and short stories. He would inquire every now and again about the content of your latest read. It delighted you to engage in literary topics, even if his responses were somewhat half-hearted.

You sighed, picking up the book once more. There were several pages of the chapter left, and you were quite eager to finish it before the night's end. In any case, it didn’t occur to you that you had dozed off until you felt someone lifting you. A moment of panic befell you as you kept your body limp.

Peeking through hooded lids, you attempted to be discreet in seeing who would dare lift you from your chair. Upon seeing the individual, your body relaxed, the tension disappearing like steam. He was quite sweet, you thought to yourself, even if he is an ass sometimes.

Your head lolled onto House’s shoulder, your arms tucked against your stomach, so it wasn’t resting awkwardly. His scent overwhelmed your entire being, lulling you back to a light but quiet slumber. A small little huff escaped your lips- the small noise caused House to stutter slightly in his steps.

When he verified that you were still dozing, he continued.

Gently, ever so gently, he placed you in bed. His hand came to rest against your cheek. Oh, how he so wished to join you in slumber. Serenity was what you brought to the table. Nothing like the chaotic decisions and resolutions people brought with them. It clung to them like a disease, spreading to others without so much as a single thought. Every person he had ever dealt with had something to gain.

Finger trailing down, he released a shuddering breath.

You didn't open your eyes until the door shut. You were drifting in that state between dream and reality, unsure of which your mind wandered to. What you did know for sure was that House was here.

The next morning, neither of you brought up the interaction from the night before. You often found yourself waking up prior to House and Loft, and thus the first to be seated at the table. The securitrons were more than capable of bringing you food, but you decided to try something a little different.

The Rob-Co CEO was greeted to an unfamiliar plate setting. This was not the work he programmed the robots to do. No, this was... informal. There was effort in the place setting, and the food was different. Home-style, but nothing like what the nuns made at the orphanage.

"I hope you don't mind," you piped from the kitchen, "I figured we would try something new for a change."

He had to admit, he was pleasantly surprised. It didn't take much to put two and two together- this was thanks for last night. Most women he had bedded never bothered to reciprocate. In fact, they gorged themselves on the luxury his name brought. But you... you took what was offered and returned it in gratitude by tenfold.

This brought a new type of delight to House, one he didn't imagine that he would feel. It almost made him feel giddy. Not the kind of feeling he felt when an experiment was a success, but genuine contentment. Everything felt a little lighter in the grand scheme of things.

"Yes, this is acceptable. By the way, the report you have on Anthony. Will you have it ready any time soon? House is eager to review, and I need to input the data into the program." Using his own name in the third person still felt foreign to the CEO. A few times, he had almost slipped, but those were easily concealed with the clearing of a throat or a half-assed remark that he was requested to fetch the information himself.

Unbeknownst to him, you did notice. However, given the priority of your tasks and the in-depth research needed, trying to decipher House's slips were the least of your worries. As far as you knew, House was simply Mr. Robert Hughes, Field Market Research.

House sat down, readying himself for breakfast. It was simple, nothing too spectacular. It was an Asian dish: egg, rice, and... well, he wasn't quite sure what that meat was. "What exactly am I eating?"

"The report will be ready by Wednesday at the latest, and it's longiniza without the skin," you told him as you sat down. "Going by the question and facial expression, I take it you've never had a dish like this."

His fork prodded the ground meat, unsure of how it would taste. He had a sensitive palette. Tentatively, he mixed all three together.

"Use the spoon and the fork." You piped up.

"What?"

"Use both."

"Why would I use both?"

"So it's easier for you to gather your foods. Like this," you showed him by using your fork to push the meat and rice onto the spoon. "I would say it's kind of like eating pasta, but it's not."

"This is rather peculiar." He nearly laughed at the silliness of such actions.

"It is, and it has taken a while for me to realize that Americans have a propensity for eating with either a fork or a spoon, but never both."

"That's quite the observation," House took his first bite, marveling at how such a simple combination of ingredients could have complex flavors. This was unlike anything he had ever eaten in his life. "I've never been the one to dissect the intricacies of a society's eating habits. Though I suppose there is a first for everything."

After finishing your breakfast, you noticed the time. The table shook as you sprang to your feet, "Oh, shoot- I'm going to be late."

"For?"

"A press piece. Had-Co want to run a piece on Anthony House, the Everyday Man." You rushed your plate to the sink. "A bit trifle if you ask me, but he needs the publicity."

"The Everyday Man," House mocked. What exactly was his brother up to? A bibliography on his life was the least important thing he should be thinking about. "What exactly does Anthony intend with such a piece? The paradigm I ran for that foretold little to no impact on public adoration and sales."

"Don't know and don't start. It wasn't my idea. Also since when did you have time to devise that report?" You could faintly hear his response as you ran to your rooms for a quick spritz of perfume and your shawl. As much as you enjoyed home-cooked meals, the smell often lingers long after.

House froze when he felt a peck on his forehead mere moments later. In that instance, your body went stock still. You don't even remember making your way towards his person. Let alone bending down to kiss his head.

The action was natural. It felt right. Almost as if you had been doing it for years now, but you never did. However, not once in your life had you ever done that. You didn't even do that with previous serious relationships.

Why would you do that? What compelled you to do that?

Your cheeks were aflame. "I- I'm sorry. I don't- I don't know what compelled me... excuse me."

Your attempt to flee for the door was stopped by a hand on your wrist. Suddenly, he towered over you. His lips met with yours with an unexpected, but welcome passion.

"Robert," you were breathless, looking up at him.

Summary: You were never meant to come to such a lavish Las Vegas corporate event. Your presence boggles House, a variable he never accounted for. He knew all the players at the table, every one of them except for you. Pairing: Robert House x Fem!Reader Warnings: None Author’s Note: You may be wondering why are there two gif sets of Justin Theroux... no reason... 👀 As usual, not beta read. Bobby Loft is Bobby Apartment.

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

You looked over the report, thumbing through each individual page. Going by the numerous folders and their sheer size, these reports were developed over a series of weeks, dare you say months.

It was meticulously written, and any declarative statement or direct observation was often supported by solid evidence. Those pieces often fell into two categories: credible character witnesses or candid photos.

There was no room for questions or ambiguity.

Both you and House currently resided in the apartment's foyer. House was sitting in his usual spot: his custom office chair, one he commissioned by Eames, that was purposely stationed at the base of his extensive computer set up. Meanwhile, you sat in the black armchair behind him. Some nights, you would join him in watching the usual hustle and bustle of the casino, legs kicked up on the arms of the chair. Other nights, you would catch him watching the occasional Howard Cooper movie and mindlessly munching on popcorn. Those nights, you would simply nest in the armchair, careful to avoid any sound.

However, tonight was business.

"What you're asking me to do," you were at a loss for words for a moment, struggling to really comprehend the request made of you, "this is akin to corporate espionage, Robert."

"Not akin. It is corporate espionage."

"You're not even going to preface that with Off the record? Just like that? We- we're just going to outright declare this fact?"

This was insanity. No, this was beyond insanity. There was no way you could do this. Your mind was racing. Even if you could pull this off, how deep would it have pulled you in? Your head was just above water here, and if House pulled you down any further, he would make sure you would be anchored to the bottom.

"Had-Co has already played their move. This is merely retaliation, and rightfully so." House took a sip of his coffee as he descended the steps, heading right towards you. It was a slow approach, like a hunter towards prey. Any fast or unpredictable move, and you would be liable to run. "I've run this scenario several times; each conceivable outcome proves detrimental to Rob-Co unless you are here."

You could feel your cheeks flush as Robert took your hands in his. He kneeled befoee you- an act of submission. Brown eyes bore into yours with such a strong, burning intensity. “Trust me.”

Now, you find yourself walking into the proverbial wolves’ den with nothing more than a resume and holotape for crude weapons. Trust me, he said. Please, he begged.

How could you say no to a man on his knees?

He knew, without any measure of doubt, that you couldn't.

Since the incident at Rob-Co, there have been a substantial amount of disgruntled employees. Considering that you were at the heart of the incident, no one would think twice about why you wanted to abandon ship. An ample opportunity, and one that would not make itself known again. House made the arrangements as soon as he knew who was behind the attack.

Of course crippling Had-Co's Marketing director would be too easy, and not to mention, to obvious. It had to be discreet, subtle.

A house divided, as the saying goes, cannot stand.

House didn't intend for his brother's infrastructure to crumble. He wanted it in ruins. And it started with you.

The position you were to interview for was similar to the one you currently have at Rob-Co, and having insider knowledge increased the likelihood of you being hired.

Anthony was desperate, House knew that much for sure. Over the last year or so, the younger sibling had been systematically obtaining Had-Co’s resources thus limiting overall production output. As predicted, major stakeholders have already prepared to start selling if Anthony was unable to return his business to baseline.

With the growing political and economic tensions here and abroad, turning to international manufacturing in an effort to reduce costs could prove fatal when trying to garner support domestically. At the same time, outsourcing labor to other areas of the United States has also proven to be a financial burden.

This was the unfortunate crisis all companies, not just Had-Co, were facing. Rob-Co, however, did not have to worry about it as a good percentage of their labor force consisted of automatons. In delegating their labor force to machines, this allowed for a larger focus to be geared towards material procurement.

Your proposal was simple: Had-Co, all American guaranteed. Take a page out of Rob-Co's book, but be better.

Anthony’s fingers slowly drummed against the tabletop. He was thinking through the logistics of your proposal. Again, it was no secret that outsourcing to labor outside of the U.S. was significantly cost saving, but you and he both knew that the caveat that loomed over was the sacrifice in material durability. However, delegating it to anywhere domestically would sacrifice overall production quality. Material failute was one thing, but total failure from an inproperly built product… that would damage Had-Co's reputation even more than it already is.

Automating the process would be far more efficient, and the focus could be directed towards quality management which does not require that many people. However, it does require people with experience. People you knew you could onboard to Had-Co.

“How soon could we push for advertising?” Anthony questioned, gesturing for you to sit in the chair opposite him. He wanted to hear more.

You breathed a sigh of relief. That feeling carried you though the meeting, reiterating the presentation you and House had prepared and rehearsed several times over. Even if it was a ploy, there was passion in your voice and fervor in your actions. It made it even more believable.

Halfway through your meeting, it suddenly dawned upon you that despite the fact you had never met Anthony before in your life, he seemed oddly familiar. You weren’t quite sure what it was. Perhaps it was the keen fascination in his eyes or the way that his posture relaxes when he leans back in his chair upon your approach.

Sometimes, he radiated that same intensity that made you feel smothered.

You knew Anthony was related to Robert House, just not the physical person you associated the name with. As far as you knew, Loft was the younger House sibling, and none of his traits mirrored or mimicked Anthony's. Perhaps they didn't spend as much time together as you thought.

Shaking the older House's hand, you offered him a small smile. It was the kind of smile that gave people a feeling of unexplainable warmth and assurance. That they could trust you explicitly. That they could tell you the worst secret in the world, and that you would nearly nod your head in understanding and refuse to tell the world.

"Thank you for your time, Ms. L/N. And I do apologize for the lack of formalities today- this was a last minute meeting."

"Oh, no, please- I should be thanking you. It's very rare that I get to have opportunities like this," you pulled away, getting prepared to leave. "I'll leave a copy of my resume and the holotape of the proposal with your secretary."

"That won't be necessary. You can just leave them here."

"Right, thank you. Force of habit," you told him sheepishly. Finally getting a chance to take a good look at Anthony, you couldn't help but ask, "Do alot of people compare you to your brother? I can't imagine the hoops you went through to make sure that your brand separated from his."

"It helps that we don't see eye to eye on many subjects. Even on something as trivial as looks," Anthony gestured to his clothing. Unlike his brother’s need for a well kept appearance, Anthony leaned towards a more casual, informal look. That being said, he was quite overdue for a shave and his hair could certainly use a trim.

"Right, well, I should get going... do you have anything else for me, Mr. House?"

"Anthony, please. If we're going to be working together, then let's drop the formalities."

"Of course, Anthony." The name felt foreign to you. Quite frankly, you had gotten used to calling Loft 'House', and he never bothered to correct you otherwise. You couldn't help but chuckle, "I'm sorry- it's just- you're certainly different from your brother."

"I'm sure there's quite a few differences between the boys at Rob-Co versus the men here." Anthony watched as you began gathering your things, "Y/N, before you go, I do have something I would like to ask you."

House was pacing back and forth when Loft arrived back in the penthouse. The double looked utterly exhausted and ready to collapse in bed at a moment's notice. His tie was shaken loose, his usual kept hair somewhat disheveled, and a half-burnt cigarette loosely hung between his lips.

The meetings were endless, and House's scheming only growing more by the day. Some days, it felt like he was playing chess. Other days, it felt like he was walking on fragile glass.

“Running some more tests?” Loft questioned as he headed towards the bar.

“No,” House continued pacing, constantly glancing towards the time. You should be back by now. What could be keeping you?

Loft approached the older man with offers of a drink. One the original gladly took in an effort to calm his nerves. To be quite frank, he had no idea why he was so nervous.

"I sent her to Anthony."

"I figured," Loft sat in the Eames chair, "otherwise, you wouldn't be creating a trench."

House immediately stopped pacing as soon as he saw you walk out of the elevator, his relief carefully hidden under a mask of impatience, "Well?"

Summary: You were never meant to come to such a lavish Las Vegas corporate event. Your presence boggles House, a variable he never accounted for. He knew all the players at the table, every one of them except for you. Pairing: Robert House x Reader Warning: Mentions of violence Author’s Note: Smaller chapter since I am currently being haunted by the dreaded flu. Blegh… Not beta read. Bobby Loft = Bobby Apartment

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

House had never run so fast in his life.

Quite frankly, Loft thought he was going to keel over when they were riding the elevator up to the Rob-Co Building. Rather than his calm, cool, collected composure, House was red-faced and wheezing. He had his arm outstretched, hand firmly pressed against the door of the elevator while the other rested on his hip. It would have been comical to the double had it not been the situation that had just transpired.

As soon as the doors opened, the CEO ran out, completely disregarding the mangled bodies of his former security group. They were merely a second thought, nothing more.

Meanwhile, Loft stopped, opting to ransack his bodyguards for a useable walkie-talkie. While it may not be the forefront of House’s mind, Loft would need to make sure that no one leaves without everyone being on the same page first. If he neglected to do this, the possible damage that could be done to Rob-Co could be irreparable. Best to nip it in the bud while they could.

"Y/N!" The call carried through the building.

With the securitrons out of commission, both the real and fake House had room to divide and conquer in their search for you. There were survivors here and there, all of whom noticed that if House was there, then surely it must be safe to exit.

Unfortunately for them, the metal shutters were still closed. The most they could do was gather in the lobby. Loft, knowing he couldn’t just leave them be, paused his search to address the situation at hand. If it’s one thing he knew best, it was damage control. While he knew he would be able to answer some of the questions put forth to him, Loft can stall long enough for security to secure the building.

Upon reaching the hallway, your office was in, House was greeted to a darkened corridor. With the exception of the occasional broken ceiling light or the broken screen of a downed machine, there wasn't much that he could see. Gazing further down the way, he noticed a faint silhouette, faint ambient light dancing off of its rectangular head and slender body

The more it inched closer, House slowly began to recognize the prototype Securitron he had been working on for the better part of the year. The 2060B Model, designed to house a far more intricate AI than the base ones Rob-Co could offer now. Given the events in the political and economic world, it was tabled in favor of addressing more serious matters, such as resource allocation and substitution.

The machine lurched forward, speeding down the hall at incredible speeds. House himself barely had time to react and found himself falling, landing hard on his backside. In a rare moment of fear, he threw his one arm up to block whatever instrument would come to strike his body.

That moment never came.

House couldn’t recall when he had shut his eyes, but upon opening them, he saw you standing a couple feet in front of him. You had your hand poised over a Pip-Boy Mk. 3, lines of code stuttering across the screen.

Unlike the robot in front of him, this particular model of Pip-Boy was in its final stages of development. The only thing preventing it from launching was its inability to interact with certain interfaces, even though the connection line was designed specifically for that.

His focus was then drawn to a tiny emitter connected to the device. That was not of his designs. Crudely fashioned, but clearly it worked with the wrist device. A peculiar feat…

"Ho- howd-dy Pa-pa-paaartner." The securitron, which House recognized to be Victor’s voice, stuttered out. "Wha- what- what can I do fo-for you today?"

You fiddled with your borrowed Pip-Boy, sending a shutdown signal from the device you had haphazardly rigged in the dark. While you excelled in the academics of fine art, you did remember a thing or two from your science classmates in university.

The long nights that you stayed up to help them study and those drawn-out sessions from editing their papers danced in the back of your memory. You suppose that some of that information stuck around, despite your best intentions.

A mental reminder to send them several "Thank You" cards was noted for later. One for your former classmates and one for the dimwit that decided to haphazardly store prototype R&D Projects in his office closet for a pre-release snip.

Once the machine shut down, your shoulders relaxed.

During the chaos, you found refuge in a what you thought was an abandoned office. Luckily for you, this office managed to house good ‘ol Victor and several other goodies. A few tinkering here and there, and the Securitron was ready for his debut. If it came down to it, you would have used Victor as a means of distraction should you need to make another mad dash to escape. For a while, it seemed like there was no hope of escaping this Hell soon.

Then you had heard House, and, like those in your situation, you had thought that all was safe for the most part. However, out of precaution, you had Victor at the ready in case anything was amiss. Perhaps it was a good thing that you had opted to scout ahead, but what you had not anticipated was Victor charging down the hall like that... and going by House's stunned expression, neither did he.

"Mr. Hughes," you offered his hand, "are you alright?"

House, despite his pride being wounded, accepted your hand when offered. It seemed he was more focused on your well-being rather than answering the question posed to him. You let out the tiniest of grunts, your other hand coming to wrap around his wrist as you utilized your body weight to help him stand. You stumbled a couple steps back, but House was quick to balance you,

He then held you at arm's length, making sure that nothing had truly happened to you. It was evident that he was worried despite his face being akin to stone. Though it could also be that he was merely stunned at your lack of injuries despite the majority of your peers. You flinch at the sudden, unexpected feeling of his fingers caressing your cheek, the warm skin just brushing the surface.

House never let you out of his sight after that incident. Until he could figure out the root cause of the attack, any surviving Rob-Co employee was either paid handsomely for their discretion or subtly reminded of the NDA's they signed at the start of their employment. You foolishly accepted the monetary bonus and a promotion to being House's equal.

It was hell for the first few days in.

You still dealt with press-related issues and reviews, but not as much as before. Honestly, you were actually quite content with the newer arrangements that House and Loft had made for you. The only caveat was that you had... roommates.

Your office was a stone's throw away from your bedroom, and for that matter, away from Loft's and House's. It took you several days to get used to seeing them wandering around occasionally, but it wasn't like they were there all the time. Both appeared at odd times of day, and Loft was usually gone for days at a time. In these cases, you would often see House sitting at his large computer, an earpiece donned.

You assumed he would be in a long-distance meeting, given the amount of commentary and direction he provided.

The evening was drawing near and you had just finished your share of the work today. House, dressed in his usual suit with the exception of his jacket, stood in the doorway. He had a cigarette in his mouth, hands tucked in his pants.

Pairing: Mycroft Holmes x Sick!Reader Warning: Character Death Author's Note: Sorry guys *flees* I'm writing more Mycroft x Reader stuff, but I wanted to tie this off before I started a new one... it's sort of a New Year's Resolution since I have so many WIPs.

Series The Beginning - Part 1 The Middle - Part 2 The End - Part 3

When Mycroft had woken up the next morning, he knew what had happened the moment he opened his eyes. In an attempt to keep the truth at bay, his body remained still- his hand interlaced with yours. You were resting peacefully on your side, one arm curled under your pillow while the other was stretched out.

He waited for your chest to rise and fall with steady even breaths.

He waited for your eyes to flutter open.

He waited for you to greet him a tired good morning as you have done countless times before.

He waited for his own eyes to drift shut- to take him back to when he was none the wiser and the world was just as it was prior to falling sleep.

Summary: You were never meant to come to such a lavish Las Vegas corporate event. Your presence boggles House, a variable he never accounted for. He knew all the players at the table, every one of them except for you. Pairing: Robert House x Reader Warnings: Blood & Vague mentions of Gore Author's Note: Pt. 3 is here 👀 Also sorry, this one I rushed to get out since I am currently at dinner with the Hubby. Yes, he does know I write these ships... he does look a little like House so that makes him feel better 😂

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

As usual, not beta read (although I do appreciate the offers! I'm just hella shy lol) and Bobby Loft = Bobby Apartment

Your pen was the only sound in the room as you frantically scribbled shorthand in your notepad.

After your weekend in Vegas, you were given a job offer not too long after you had left. Nothing too spectacular, only a simple letter in the mail. Considering House had given you his number before your departure, a quick call was all you needed to confirm that this was not, in fact, a prank.

He sounded rather jovial about it, telling you that this was your next big adventure and that you had to come to Vegas. Almost as if you had no choice in the matter, and while you didn't know, you most certainly didn't. One way or another, you were going back to the glittering city.

You did tell him that, though it may seem certain that everything would be fine, to you, it seemed like jumping off a cliff with no end in sight. Where you were was comfortable, and you enjoyed familiarity. Like anyone else, you found it difficult to get out of your comfort zone.

House, sensing that any further goading would cause you to draw back, gave you the illusion of choice and advised that perhaps you should consult with whatever ties you have anchoring you down. Little did you know, he had already spoken to them about it. It didn't take much to convince, and in turn, it didn't take much to convince you.

The potential to be a part of something... great. Something your friends echoed when you talked to them about your occupational dilemma. It did sound tantalizing. The added bonus was that you would get to see your Mr. Hughes again. He'd come by every now and again, the excuses of work on his lips whenever you and he accidentally bumped into each other.

All in all, you had to admit that when you finally accepted the Executive Marketing Associate role, you did not anticipate the number of press meetings you would attend from week to week. One could describe it as incredibly cumbersome, especially since your new boss dumped everything press-wise on you. At first, you considered it an honor, but now, not so much.

As it happens, there was an agreement with the press that any pieces about Rob-Co would run through their own marketing department for editing and approval. Fortunate for Rob-Co, unfortunate for you. You spent more time talking to people, navigating pitfalls, and garnering favors than actually doing any of the written work. One individual whom you would see on a near-weekly basis, Cindy, you think her name was, was particularly annoying. The questions, the suggestions- it felt like there was no end in sight when it came to her inquiries and speeches.

This morning alone, a lofty stack of articles awaits your personal touch despite having gone through a similarly sized stack last week. Once or twice this last week, you can't exactly remember, House caught you fast asleep on your desk. You would often wake up to a steaming cup of coffee with just enough cream and sugar to suit your taste. Not to mention a Securitron lingering behind you with a plate of bagels and other various snacks.

After the marketing meeting regarding the next steps for Rob-Co, you and Loft were the only ones remaining in the room. This was not an uncommon sight; you often found him lounging in your office more after press-heavy days like this. On these days, meetings would usually last from the very start of your day, well into the evening. When the double had done this the first time, the tension and awkwardness were quite heavy until he had loosened his tie and whipped out a cigarette for an immediate smoke.

While the double would never admit it, he would often hear House expressing his grievances about staying past his allotted time. That was usually handled by removing the tiny earpiece that would usually sit in his ear canal throughout the day.

When he had originally taken this job, Loft did not anticipate the loneliness that would plague him from day to day. House was good company on occasion, but you were certainly a breath of fresh air. Especially since the formalities between you two had since disappeared the more time he spent with you.

Your notepad and pencil clattered on the wood desktop as you haphazardly tossed them away from you. Rubbing your face, you hoped to at least do away some of the tiredness that was plaguing you. Coffee would sure help, but you already had a few cups today.

"You got any drinks in this office?" Loft asked, looking just as drained as you. He gave a brief smile of thanks as you motioned to your cabinets. The selection was nothing special, and it will get the job done. "Scotch, whiskey... absinthe? Where did you get absinthe?"

"A gift from Mr. Hughes," you told him, reaching for the paper stack to start thumbing through. If you don't start now, then you'll never get them done by next week. At this rate, you may as well drag a cot and house an additional chest of clothes in your office. One of these days, you'll actually see House sneak into your office. "Out of curiosity, Mr. House, how often do you get to see Mr. Hughes anyway?"

"Every so often," Loft murmured, pouring himself a glass of whiskey, "Why do you ask?"

What was particularly peculiar about House was the lack of people who did not interact with his alias. Whenever you brought up the name "Robert Hughes", you were often met with looks of confusion. Maybe one or two people mentioned they knew him by role, but nothing more. One would have to surmise he truly spent his time more in the field than in the office.

"Well, it's just that- I know that this building is due for renovations and all, and most of the departments have already transitioned out..." You picked up your pen, "it's just most of the people I have spoken with actually don't know him."

Loft didn't miss a beat, "He usually reports to me personally. His research is invaluable to Rob-Co, and his ability to be a chameleon certainly helps with retrieving authentic data and reviews."

Before the conversation could go any further, the lights flickered repeatedly. The two of you pause your conversation, opting to look around in confusion and waiting for the surge to pass. Loft set his glass back on the table, a worried look on his face. This Rob-Co building shared the same power source as the Lucky 38, something House developed on his own ever since the Resource Wars started. There should be no reason for the disturbance. It was not as if House was experimenting on it either; he would've made sure that nothing would disturb the operations of the casino.

It didn’t take a genius to know something was amiss.

A scream tore through the silence, causing both you and Loft to run out of your office in search of the commotion. Hindsight being 20/20, you two should have stayed within the confines of your office.

The double had barely made it out before encountering the nature of the issue.

Securitrons, regardless of their intended designation, seemed to be severely malfunctioning. Some were acting manically as their legs carried them through the lit hallways. Others were stationary, swiping at anything that came within a five-foot radius. One poor soul found themselves clean on their back after stumbling too close to one.

It was horrific to be frank. The idea of another individual dragging their limbs to and fro like a crude puppeteer. It was clear that their actions were not their own, but when those strings would snap, that’s hard to say.

"House!" You lunge for Loft as a robot headed straight for you two. Rather than telling him to look out, you acted first.

He had barely managed to dodge one before getting swung at. The only thing that prevented him from getting hurt was you pulling him out of the way. As it was, the metal claw was mere inches from striking his head.

Out of chivalry, his first instinct was to flip over and shield you with his body. The two of you ended up as a tangle of limbs as the Securitron rolled on its way. Loft was practically lying on your side; the only thing propping him up was his hand awkwardly positioned by your arm. For a few seconds, you two laid there before he drew back quickly.

"Can you turn these off?" You frantically asked as you got to your feet.

"I can," a lie, "but not from here."

"Okay, so where?!" You two jumped as another Securitron zoomed past the two of you and crashed right into the wall to your left. Before he could answer, a wave of panicked workers passed you. Some looked rather disheveled, ready to shove anyone out of their way if need be. None of them gave you a second thought as they fled down the hall.

"House!"

It occurred to Loft that you were referring to him. He then ushered you forward towards the main room, "There's an elevator that leads to the workshop. Head there!"

You didn't question his order, running just in front of him as people scrambled in every which way. A couple of times, you accidentally ran into a few shoulders, but quickly recovered so as not to lose sight of him. However, a poorly timed side step caused you to be knocked down against the wall. You stumbled to your feet, catching a glimpse of Loft running by. He backtracked and grabbed your arm, forcing you to regain your balance. After making sure you were alright, he continued ahead of you, leading the way.

By the time you and he had gotten to the elevator, security had piled in front and prevented any entry beyond the threshold. You could see him cursing, ordering them to let you through but to no avail.

"Dammit! Y/N!"

"Go! I'll be okay!" Your words rushed out before the doors closed. You weren’t quite sure if that was to comfort him or yourself more. Nevertheless, gather what little courage you did. The next logical step would be to find a safe haven. Returning to your office was an option, but when you had exited, there were at least five robots lumbering their way through. Trying to squeeze by them would be foolish, so perhaps leaving the building would be the next best bet.

Bright lights flickered once more as you bounded down the steps to the front doors. People of like mind also made headway to the entrance, but before you could get your hands on the handle, it seemed as if they suddenly locked.

Before getting caught in the growing wall of people, you stumbled to a stop. Racking your brain for better options, you involuntarily jumped at the main room suddenly going dark. It seemed like forever before the ambience eventually shifted to a dim red. Panic and horror tingled down your back. You could barely see, and what you could see came from the silhouettes of sunlight peering through the glass doors. That is, before the metal shutters dropped with a heavy clunk. One by one, your hope for making it to the outdoors dwindled.

When the horrid sound of squealing tires caught up to you, you felt your breath hitch in your throat. Turning your head just a smidge, you barely caught the one-wheeled robot coming at you before your body instinctively lurched to the side. Despite moving just in time, you still managed to trip over your own feet and land hard on your thigh. Soreness bloomed much to your discomfort, and with little time to address it, there was nothing you could do about it.

By the time you looked up, a deeper red coated the door and windows. The sound of glass crunching and people screaming drowned out the already panicked yelling of associates behind you. It was hard to see where grey metal ended and scarlet flesh began.

Another one-wheeled robot passed you, screen glitching out madly. Before it too could crash into the doors, it came to a skittering halt.

“Oh… shit.”

"Damn it," Loft ran a hand through his hair. The ride to the basement felt like a journey, and he didn't know if he would survive the next several minutes. When the doors opened, he began sprinting to the section leading to the Lucky 38. Thankfully for him, House didn't appreciate anyone or anything in his space, so there was no one or robot, for that matter, to stop him.

By the time he made it to the penthouse, the system was nearly through resetting itself. He nearly tumbled a few times since the emergency lights had triggered, but managed to make his way around and out.

House was typing away at the computer, his eyes darting between monitors. He ignored the calls, opting to focus on isolating and tracing the problem. To him, the only sound he could hear was the occasional blips of data and his fingers furiously hitting the keys. Where was it? Where was it?

He managed to isolate the problem for now, focusing more on maintaining normalcy within the casino. As for the Rob-Co building attached, he could not say the same. He knew you and Loft were in there during the cyber-attack, but he trusted that his double would be able to take care of you until it was over. Sacrificing the office building was, for all intents and purposes, the most logical solution. If anyone so much as heard of a mechanical bloodbath in the Lucky 38, then it would be the death of that shining beacon.

There.

Those few lines of code. Practically a battering ram rather than a snake now that he’s gotten a proper look at it. It made him scoff. Anthony was many things, but not this. Hired help perhaps? Someone on his staff looking to make a payday. Why didn’t the algorithm pick this up before? Had he not adjusted it in time?

By the time Loft had made it to the stairs, House had regained control. He caught sight of the man running down, but no sign of you. "House-"

Summary: You were never meant to come to such a lavish Las Vegas corporate event. Your presence boggles House, a variable he never accounted for. He knew all the players at the table, every one of them except for you. Pairing: Robert House x Fem!Reader Content Warning: None that comes to mind Author's Note: Voila - Part 2! As usual, not beta read. Loft = Bobby Apartment.

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

House must admit- this might be an outfit he would be keen on wearing again. The tie was a striking contrast against the white, and the blue blazer was the cherry on top. Since he last saw you, he had taken the liberty of choosing a dress and sending it to you. While he did enjoy the women that Loft brought every now and again, their choice of attire could be better. At least, that was House's opinion. He was sure his double would say otherwise.

The choice was a tad brazen, perhaps. As it happens, he was curious to see how you would react. Either way, he would not mind what you chose. His current goal was already achieved. The measurements he calculated, and the time spent analyzing them, would have placed Sherlock Holmes to shame.

Standing at the base of the steps in the revolving restaurant, he watched you exit the elevator. For the first time in a long time, his breath caught in his throat. This- this was unexpected. He had wagered that there was significantly more potential for you to do away with the dress than to actually don it. However, House admits he particularly enjoys being right when it comes to something as simple as sizes.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see other men staring at you, one nudged the other in an attempt to goad each other to approach you. Something he quickly signaled as ill-willed as he stepped in front of their view. A single glare was all it took for them to pay attention to themselves.

Upon your approach, you almost appeared bashful when he turned around. Just for a second, you could see surprise flash in his eyes before it was smothered by a look of satisfaction. After allowing him to take the chance to take in your appearance, you spoke, "First, my room number... and now my size. Should I be worried, Mr. Hughes?"

"My darling, the chances of my being the one who goes bump in the night are quite low." He leaned towards you. His lips mere inches from your ear, "Unlike other sordid admirers, at least you'll know what I intend."

"Is that so?" You place a hand on his chest, giving him a polite shove. "Save me the mystery. You could tell me now."

He grinned from ear to ear, "What is that old adage? Curiosity kills the cat.”

Loft, who was sitting at the head table, was pleasantly surprised when House approached the table with you on his arm. One would say that the real House harbored a look very much like the cat who ate the canary. "Mr. Hughes," he drawled, taking another drag of his cigarette, "quite the date for tonight's dinner. One might say scandalous given the circumstances."

House flashed him a warning look. Don't push it.

Loft merely returned the gesture with a smug smirk.

Dinner, for the most part, went well. 75% of the conversation was business, though none of the topics were really worth commenting on or discussing. You were wistfully silent, giving your attention to whoever was speaking. Occasionally, you would see your boss across the way- jaw clenched, eyes squinted. Perhaps a nerve bulging in his temple.

It truly irked him that you were sitting at the head table. Something he believed that he deserved.

"Ms. L/N," Loft spoke up, "you've been quiet. Any opinions for the table?"

"Ah, none I can truly comment on. Like most, I am not a reliable critic or opinionator in this instance." You said humbly, dabbing your lips with the cloth napkin. A polite gesture and formality, if anything. "Here, I would defer to the expertise of my companion.”

An unexpected response, Loft thought to himself as he exhaled. Of all the women House could have, a timid trait was not a characteristic he thought his boss would choose. "Companion. My, my Mr. Hughes, how you've risen up in the world. Stranger today, companion tonight, lover tomorrow…”

House merely took another bite of his dinner, eyebrow raised. If his double was eager to throw such jabs, he certainly wasn't hiding it well. This was, after all, the first time in a long, long time in which House was not speaking into his ear. The CEO had to admit; he was impressed with Loft. He had taken this persona far for as long as he has been performing. "Well, Mr. House, what can I say? I've always been ambitious- same as you."

"Like kin, you and I." Loft smirked. There was a small part of him that gained satisfaction from nudging the other man. They were hardly seen together when it came to public appearances, and for good reason. Nevertheless, this felt like his only chance to truly tease the other man.

After dinner, as people began leaving the restaurant in trickles, you opted to stay. Standing at the window, the toes of your shoes nearly touched the glass pane. Your eyes were transfixed on the sight of Las Vegas at its brightest. This was a once-in-a-lifetime view.

In all honesty, this was a once-in-a-lifetime night. The woman who everyone turned their heads for. The woman who was seen, heard, and by some miracle, included. Come Monday, however, you would go back to your regular life. A stranger to most, nothing to some.

"I don't think that I could truly tire of this sight," you spoke aloud as you peered into the streets below. Like ants, the people moved to and fro- most with purpose, rushing to get to their destination wherever that may be, "I admit, I am envious of the people who do get to see this from night to night."

House hummed his agreement, "In all my years, I don't believe I have ever come across a city as beautiful as this one."

The two of you talk for several minutes. House was calculated in his questions, probing at just the surface. Before he could delve further, you yawned. However, you tried to be discreet, using the back of your hand to hide the stretch of your jaw. Going by the clock, as it seems, it's time for bed.

"Join me for coffee tomorrow, I'd like to take you around the town." He slipped you a piece of paper. "The time and address."

"I will- thank you, Mr. Hughes," you move to kiss his cheek, lingering for maybe a second or two before pulling back. He wished you stayed like this longer, "Have a good night, Robert."

"And you, Ms. L/N."

With that, you retired for the evening. House returned to his penthouse, greeted to the sight of his double sitting in his chair with his eyes glued to the screen. In the top corner, House could see into your room. Your bare back was turned to the camera, but just before you could bare yourself to the camera, his voice rang out, clear as day, "Enjoying the view?"

Loft chuckled more to himself than at House. His eyes transfixed on you as you readied for bed, "Now or at dinner?"

"Either, or."

"She's a treat- not your usual type, Bobby." Loft could have sworn he saw House twitch at the mere mention of the nickname.

"Is that so?" House elected to ignore the poor moniker as he began to descend the staircase. "How does one exactly determine 'my' type of women?"

Loft shrugged, standing up. While he had spent the night poking and prodding House, he still held a healthy respect for the man. Holding out a champagne flute, he waited for him to take it, "You seem to like the ones I bring."

"A poor deduction, Loft. They're dalliances, nothing more," The other man took the flute, "Pleasures aside, I do believe it is time to shake things up. Is everything set in place?"

"Korody will be out of a job by the end of the week. The Marketing Director's assistant will take over, albeit temporarily, until we can find a replacement. He won't be happy to be out of Vegas for a while, but the compensation for his troubles is already arranged." Loft watched House as he made way to his chambers, "Are you going to tell her?"

"Eventually, but I need to know if I can trust her. I still don't know who she is or why she was chosen to come here. This changes things; the projections will need to be adjusted to account for her presence." Ah, there was the House that Loft was used to seeing.

"Until then?"

Pairing: Mycroft Holmes x Sick!Reader Content Warning: Nondescript illness, implied age gap Author's Note: Alright, so I did do a Pt. 2. I wasn't quite sure how this was going to turn out. As usual, not beta read. Series The Beginning - Part 1 The Middle - Part 2 The End - Part 3

You had awaken that morning, drained as usual. Your feet dragged you to Mycroft's kitchen where he was sitting, newspaper raised as to catch the light peering through the windows. Coffee was brewing in the kitchen, and a simple breakfast awaited you: cereal and a pitcher of milk. Full of nutrition with minimal effort.

Passing by, you hears the paper crinkle just a tad. "Would you like to put on some clothes? My shirt is hardly suitable for a day out."

"Not particularly," you mumbled as you reached for a cup.

"Oh, ple-"

The sound of porcelain shattering echoed throughout the kitchen. Mycroft was out of his chair in an instance. He noticed that you were standing stock still, hand still poised as if you were still reaching for the cup. It was imperceptible, but to Mycroft, you may as well have worn a sign. Your body twitched, struggling to understand its next move.

As for your consciousness, however- for a moment, it seemed like the world simply blipped. "Skipped" might have been another word for it.

You weren't quite sure what happened. One second, you were reaching for the cabinet. The next, Mycroft was in front of you, hands clasped on both sides of your face. Cold blue bore into your's. His voice is firm, "Y/N, can you hear me?"

Your hands slowly reached to touch his, your fingers tingling as if you had overexterted yourself mere moments ago. If you were attempting to grip his own in a fruitless way of reassurance, then the other man could not tell, "I can. I'm sorry, did something happen?"

"Another symptom of your illness. I will have to record this for your next doctor's appointment," Mycroft looked around the kitchen, deciding on the next best course of action, "Don't move. You dropped a cup."

"Oh."

"Here, grab on." Mycroft leaned forward for you to throw your arms around his neck as he wrapped his arms under your back and legs. With a huff, he scooped you up. Weeks ago, he would have been panting from the action of lifting alone. However, you had developed a tendency to fall asleep in your recliner downstairs. It wasn't uncommon for him to bring you to bed now as soon as he arrived home from work.

Most days, you often wake up, curled in his lap as he read aloud the latest chapter of his book of the week. Long fingers would be gently stroking the top of your head, more soothing for him than it was for you. In his own way, it was a reminder that you were still here. At the end of the day, however, despite your best attempts otherwise, you would find yourself lulled back asleep by the soothing tone and the soft, repetitive pressure.

He brought you clear of the shattered glass and placed you on the high stool he was previously sitting on. "There we are. I'll get a broom."

"Mycroft-"

"Have your breakfast. I'll get your medicine after you're done, and then I'm calling your doctor to have your appointment moved up. After that, we'll get ready for the wedding, okay? Do not get down from the stool."

You nodded, turning your attention to the bowl sitting in front of you. Your fingers shook as you reached for the spoon. Gripping it was difficult, every tendon and ligament in your hand felt like gelatin.

In the next room, Mycroft's watchful gaze could be felt. In his mind palace, he wracked his knowledge to narrow down what could be plaguing you. His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, before eventually moving down to press against his Cupid's Bow. He inwardly cursed at himself for becoming attached.

Friends were one thing. He knew he would never truly have friends, but a partner, much less one romantically driven. Perish the thought.

His voice rang out, "Thirty minutes, and then we get ready."

Mycroft was many things, but late, he is not. Thoughon this particular day, it seemed that the universe had decided to throw every possible obstacle it could into his path. First, the car. Then traffic. And now, the blasted suit. His assistant, who was kind of enough to come to the wedding, was now scrambling to sew that last button onto the groom’s vest.

Ever since you and Mycroft had gotten together, he had become the reluctant advisor to one of your closest friends, Professor Adrian Lute, an expert in the field of mycology. You were friends during university, letting him live in your flat rent-free until he could get on his feet. He never forgot about you and often pushed to keep in contact.

During one of your rare outings with Mycroft, you stumbled across him while he was on his own date. From then on, you and Mycroft saw him again. Though those visits were usually arranged beforehand. As a show of support, you even attended one of his lectures about mycelium. That one you fell asleep in, but Mycroft was kind enough to give you a brief synopsis. Considering the conversations he and Mycroft often spoke of, it was a wonder why he had so gleefully chosen Mycroft as his best man for the wedding.

"Is there any particular reason why your friend is texting me questions about the legality of mushrooms in the UK?" Mycroft asked, clearly exasperated at the onslaught of inquiries being sent to his phone. "At this rate, I may need to change my number."

Tooth brush still in your mouth, you walked into the bedroom. An unintelligible series of sounds emitted from your mouth as you refused to remove the brush- whether it be because of plain laziness or either a purposeful attempt at vexing your partner.

He paused, "Yes, but I only inquired as a theoretical."

Another series of wet mumbles was uttered.

"He thought I wanted to import them?"

You blinked, another mumble and a shrug of your shoulders.

"Why is it my problem? He's your friend." He sighed, "I'll let Althea handle the allocation of those resources. I'm sure the US will have some variating needs for them... Oh good God, a group chat?! Y/N!"

You didn’t think Mycroft would take the wedding business so seriously until you found a rather full binder of everything from decorating flowers to cake toppers. Cost breakdowns as well as resources and vendors of every choice were tacked onto each page, each section labeled divisively and clearly for the reader.

While you played your video games, he was in the chair next to yours, steadfast in compiling research like it was his job. Though you supposed Mycroft did what he was best at: gathering and analyzing intel.

That being said, when it came to actually acquiring services, that was a nightmare in and of upon itself. Mycroft had to be the only person you knew that could take a single word and make it sound like the most repulsive thing on the planet. There were a few times when you had to apologize to the actual wedding planner for his abrasive and, quite frankly, obtuse behavior.

Come the wedding day, both you and he arrived early (or at least attempted to), in order to make sure everything went without a hitch. A few hiccups here and there, but nothing you or he could not solve. When it came to the actual ceremony, however, the inevitable discovery was that the original piano player had been arrested for drunk driving. Well, a crash course in piano playing was in order.

"Oh, my god." John nudged his companion. "Sherlock, is- is that Mycroft?"

"Hm, so it is." The private detective confirmed. "Playing the piano... someone made him do it."

"Why? What makes you say that?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, "He hates playing the piano. Also look at his face- scrunched, eyes narrowed and glued to the music sheet. He just learned the sheet music no less than twenty minutes ago I wager."

"Mycroft doesn't like playing the piano?"

"He doesn't like doing anything, even if it requires the most minor of efforts. It is curious that he is playing. There is a cause."

John spotted you sitting next to Mycroft, your body swaying to the delicate music. You had a microphone to your lips, a smile gracing your features as this last-minute performance seemed to be going well. What perplexed John, something Sherlock would deny quite later, was the occasional glance in your direction. It was fondness.

When the ceremony was over, both of you were quite glad that it was, you stood together greeting guests as they made their way to the reception for celebrations. As you had still been feeling quite ill throughout the day, Mycroft had gone and fetched you a chair.

Most faces that passed by you indeed recognized, but one in particular, Mycroft, nearly ran from. If he could, he would be halfway home by now.

“Oh god,” he muttered to himself, before straightening as much as he could, “Hello, brother mine.”

“Greetings, brother dear.” The younger Holmes greeted, albeit skeptically. “I need not run through a list of identifiers that now classifies your supposed "mystery woman" as John puts it. I now, unfortunately, owe him 20 P.”

“Damn right,” the good doctor muttered, popping up from behind the detective, “Mycroft, you didn’t tell us you had a wife."

“Why the sudden interest in my love life, Dr. Watson? We're hardly acquaintances.” He drawled before you could go on correct either of them. You fiddled with the little ruby on your finger. It was merely a simple band of sterling silver with a ruby setting - he had bought it for you prior to a weekend getaway, but hardly a sign of union. As it happens, you noticed that Mycroft didn’t bother to correct the man.

“Girlfriend, John. Since when did you date?”

“Since mother and father decided that I needed a companion and dragged me to a cafe. Don’t ogle, Sherlock, it is unbecoming.” You could feel Mycroft rolling his eyes. It had gotten to the point where you were able to successfully identify and predict one of the 7 different exaggerated facial expressions he would use in any applicable conversation.

“Wait, your parents set you two up?” John inquired. A moment of awkward silence fell upon the group before he piped up once more. His face was twisted with confusion, "Are you sure that they didn’t mean to set you up with Sherlock? The age-”

"Do not finish that sentence, Dr. Watson." Mycroft interjected. His hands were resting on your shoulders, and you could feel him squeezing intermittently. He wouldn't say it, but you knew he was quite embarrassed by the fact your ages differed.

Not too long ago, someone had muttered that they thought you and he were related until Adrian had cleared up the relationship status. The look on your partner's face was that of... well, you couldn't quite describe what that emotion was.

Regardless, you felt your cheeks heat up. That was certainly a valid question, now that you had given it some thought. You then spoke up, “We are quite sure this was the intended result. They met with us when we first introduced.”

"What are you two doing here? Coincidences aside, there must be a reason." Mycroft was steering the conversation to a different topic as to avoid an additional 20 minutes of needless questions and banter.

"Oh yea, we know the groom- Adrian. He's one of Sherlock's contacts. Something about mushrooms?"

"Ah, I actually heard about you two earlier, but I never really pieced it together until now." You grinned as you reached for Mycroft's arm. "Adrian was quite pleased with himself after his encounter with you lot. The blog you wrote was an excellent piece, Dr. Watson. He has it hanging on his fridge. You ought to think about writing a novel sometime."

The older Holmes, seeing that the guests had filtered in and that you were ready to move, helped you up. He now harbored an uncharacteristically worried look on his face as you wobbled slightly. Your countenance was far paler than normal- far be it from the usual he saw from day to day.

After some reassurances that you felt fine, a pride-filled lie of course, the two of you made it to your assigned places. You spent the afternoon together- the speeches, the early dinner. It was all wonderful. The best man speech, as befuddled as he was to write it, was inspiring to say the least. At the very least, John could certainly see the similarities between Sherlock and Mycroft.

When the music started, you opted for a quieter area. The lakefront hotel that your friend chose was out of a fairytale.

"Hi again," John announced his greeting, "fancy seeing you here."

"Hello again, Dr. Watson," you replied. "Enjoying the party?"

"Oh, yea- it was great. Sherlock, however, seems nowhere to be found. So I thought I would check out here."

"Ah, I see. Seeing as Mycroft is of a similar status, one could conclude they may be speaking with each other." You sipped your water. "Care to have a seat?"

When Mycroft and Sherlock found you and John, you two were in the midst of discussing the peculiar habits of each brother. You may have let it slip why Mycroft carries his umbrella around almost everywhere. You once recalled what he thought was a burglar spooking about the property, a "master of the shadows" he once surmised when he realized none of the cameras picked up a form. He had his sword out, and despite his best intentions to be stealthy, you discovered the intruder first simply by walking outside. As it turns out, the elusive criminal was nothing more than a stray kitten. One you had fondly named "Breakfast".

"I hope you enjoyed unravelling my image," Mycroft placed a hand on your shoulder. "If you don't mind, Dr. Watson, there is a slower song upcoming, and I would very much like to dance with my partner."

"Oh, partner, not wife. It seems I have been downgraded," you joked.