Randy ^^

When the vision first started to tunnel away a year ago, you had treated it like a bad joke. “Just means I don't have to look at your ugly mugs every morning,”you had joked with him and Wilson. Even after the world went totally black a few months back, you kept up the brave front. You memorized the steps to the kitchen, laughed off the bruised shins, and insisted you were fine.

But tonight, the armor had cracked.

House stopped just short of the threshold, his gaze softening in a way he only ever allowed when it was just the two of you. "If you're planning on jumping, let me grab a coat first. The paperwork is killer."

You didn't laugh. You didn't even turn your head. A single, silent tear slipped down your cheek, catching the faint reflection of a streetlamp.

The sarcasm died in his throat. House limped closer, the uneven thud of his bad leg announcing his final steps until he was standing right beside you, leaning heavily against the railing.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice dropping its usual sharp edge, replaced by a rare, raw vulnerability. "What's going on in that stubborn head of yours?"

"I'm forgetting," you whispered, the words so fragile they seemed at risk of shattering in the wind.

House frowned, his medical mind instantly firing up. "Forgetting what? Dates? Words? If you're having neurological symptoms, we need to run an MRI—"

"No, Greg. Not like that." You finally turned your face toward the sound of his breath. You reached out, your hands trembling slightly as they found his chest, sliding up to his neck, and finally tracing the rough stubble of his jawline. Your fingertips memorized the familiar dip of his collarbone, the sharp line of his cheek, the crinkles at the edge of his eyes.

But as your thumbs brushed his eyelashes, your shoulders slumped, and a sob broke through your chest. You dropped your hands, letting them fall uselessly to your sides.

"I'm forgetting your face," you cried softly, the grief finally pouring out. "It’s been months, Greg. At first, I could see you perfectly when I closed my eyes. But now... it's fading. It’s like a photograph left out in the sun. No matter how many times I touch your face, no matter how hard I try to rebuild you in my mind... something always feels wrong. The nose is too sharp, or the eyes are the wrong shape, or I can't map the lines around your mouth quite right."

House stood completely still, his breath catching. For a man who always had an answer, a diagnosis, or a cruel truth to cut through the noise, he was entirely defenseless against your heartbreak.

"It's my fault," you choked out, pressing your forehead against his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline. "I should have looked at you more. I should have stared at you until it was burned into my retinas forever. I'm losing the only thing I wanted to keep."

"Y/N, stop. Look at me."

House dropped his cane, letting it clatter loudly against the balcony floor. He didn't care. He brought both of his hands up, framing your face, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears streaming down your cheeks. His hands were large, warm, and slightly calloused, but they held you with a fierce, protective tenderness.

"It is not your fault," he said, his voice cracking slightly, thick with an emotion he rarely let anyone see. "Your brain is adapting to a massive sensory deficit. It's science, not a personal failure. You don't get to blame yourself for how biology works."

"But I can't see you," you whispered miserably.

"Then don't try to see me," House replied, leaning down until his forehead rested against yours, closing the distance between you. "You’re trying to force a memory, and it's messing with your head. Stop trying to paint a picture."

He took one of your trembling hands and pressed it directly over his heart. Beneath your palm, the steady, rhythmic thud was strong and sure.

"What does that feel like?" he asked softly.

"It's fast," you managed a small, watery smile. "And warm."

"That's because you're freezing out here like an idiot," he muttered, a flash of his usual wit returning, though his eyes remained intensely focused on you. He took your other hand and guided it back to his face, holding your fingers against his jaw. "Don't worry about what I look like. I'm a miserable, cynical bastard with a limp and a terrible attitude. You aren't missing a masterpiece."

"You're beautiful to me," you countered, your voice fiercely protective even in your sadness.

"Then feel it," House murmured, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke, his breath warm against your mouth. "I'm right here. I'm not a memory, Y/N. I'm not a picture you can lose. I'm right here, holding onto you, and I am not going anywhere."

When he kissed you, it wasn't the fleeting, casual kiss of a couple passing in the hall. It was deep, grounding, and desperate with the reassurance you needed. He pulled you flush against his body, anchoring you to the present, reminding you that even if the light had gone out, the warmth of him was something darkness could never touch.

When he finally pulled back, your breathing had slowed, the panic subsiding into a quiet, peaceful ache.

"Still think the nose is too sharp?" he whispered against your ear.

You let out a soft, genuine laugh, leaning into his side as he wrapped his arms around you, shielding you from the wind. "Maybe a little."

"Shut up," he muttered affectionately, kissing the top of your head. "Let's go inside. It's freezing, and you're terrible at navigating the living room when you're crying."

-end

"How far apart?" his voice was rough with sleep, but his hands were already steady as he reached for you.

"Ten minutes," you whispered, a tear slipping down your cheek. "Greg, it’s happening again. It’s too early. My body is failing her again."

"Hey," House growled softly, gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him. The cynical, sarcastic doctor was gone; his eyes were fiercely alive with a protective desperation. "Look at my face. Thirty-four weeks is not twenty-four. Her lungs are ready. You are ready. We are going to the hospital, and we are bringing our daughter home."

The trip to Princeton-Plainsboro was a blur of blinding headlights and agonizing, tightening waves of pain. By the time House wheeled you through the doors of the ER, you were sobbing, completely overwhelmed by the physical agony and the suffocating terror of history repeating itself.

The standard hospital machinery kicked in instantly. The on-call OBGYN, Dr. Thomas, rushed into the triage room with a team of nurses, gloved and ready to examine you.

"Get away from me!" you shrieked, pulling your legs back, pressing yourself flat against the headboard of the bed. Your eyes frantically scanned the room until they landed on House. "No! No one touches me but him! Greg, don't let them!"

"Y/N, I need to check your dilation, you're in active labor," Dr. Thomas said urgently. "Dr. House is a diagnostician, he isn't—"

"I don't care!" you screamed, your voice cracking with raw panic. A violent contraction seized your abdomen, making you arch your back. "He knows what we lost! He knows her! Greg, please! Only you!"

House didn't hesitate. He slammed his cane down onto a side table with a resounding clack that silenced the room. "You heard her. Step back."

"House, this is highly irregular, you're not on staff as an obstetrician—" Thomas argued.

"I have an MD, I've delivered babies in the clinic, and more importantly, she’s mine," House snapped, his voice carrying an icy authority that brooked no argument. He grabbed a bottle of sterile scrub, washing his hands with furious efficiency before snapping on a pair of latex gloves. "You want to stand there and watch to make sure I don't break a policy? Fine. But if you touch her, I’ll find out which pharmaceuticals you're taking bribes from and ruin your career by sunrise. Back off."

The OBGYN and the two nurses slowly stepped back, forming a quiet, watchful perimeter at the back of the room, ready to intervene only if a medical catastrophe arose.

Outside the glass doors of the delivery room, a small crowd had gathered. Cuddy stood with her arms crossed, her eyes shining with an anxious, protective warmth. Wilson was beside her, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his face pale with worry for his best friend. Behind them, Chase, Cameron, and Foreman stood in a hushed line, their usual medical detachment melted away by the sheer emotional gravity of what was happening inside.

House ignored them all. The entire universe had shrunk down to this bed, to you, and to the fragile promise of the heartbeat coming from the monitor.

"It's just you and me, Y/N," House murmured, moving to the foot of the bed. His voice was incredibly soft now, a low, grounding anchor in the middle of your storm. "I'm right here. I’ve got you. On the next contraction, I need you to push."

The wave hit you, a blinding crescendo of pain. You grabbed the metal bars of the bed, screaming as you pushed with everything you had left. The fear of failure, the grief of the babies you had lost, the agonizing hope for this one—you poured all of it into the physical effort.

"Good, beautiful, keep going," House urged. His hands were perfectly steady, guiding you, shielding you.

Hours bled together. You pushed until your throat was raw, until your muscles trembled so violently you couldn't hold your legs up. Through it all, House didn't blink. He wiped the sweat from your forehead, he let you crush his hand until his fingers popped, and he spoke to you in a way he had never spoken to anyone else—with absolute, unyielding devotion.

"I see her," House suddenly breathed, his voice catching. A look of pure, unadulterated awe broke across his hardened face. "She's right there, Y/N. Dark hair. Just like yours. One more push and she's out. Give me everything you've got."

With a final, desperate cry, you gathered every shattered piece of your strength and pushed.

The release was sudden and overwhelming. For a fraction of a second, the room fell into a terrifying, breathless silence. Your eyes flew open, your heart stopping, waiting for the nightmare to reclaim you.

Then, a sharp, angry, beautiful gasp tore through the air, followed by a loud, vigorous wail.

The sound shattered the ghosts in the room.

House immediately lifted the squirming, slippery, beautifully pink baby girl, laying her directly onto your bare chest. The nurses behind him moved forward with towels, but House gently waved them off, wanting to be the one to clear her airway, to wrap her up, to keep her safe.

You collapsed back against the pillows, your hands trembling violently as you cradled the warm, crying weight against your skin. "She's breathing... Greg, she's breathing. She's crying."

"She’s perfect," House whispered.

You looked up at him, and the sight broke your heart in the most beautiful way. Gregory House—the man who guarded himself with walls of stone and sarcasm—was crying. Large, silent tears streamed openly down his face, tracking through the stubble on his cheeks. He fell to his knees beside the bed, his cane completely forgotten, and buried his face in the crook of your neck, his shoulders shaking with deep, silent sobs.

You wrapped one arm around his head, holding him close, while your other hand held your daughter.

Outside the glass, Cuddy wiped a tear from her cheek and walked away to give you privacy. Wilson let out a long, shuddering breath, a massive, emotional smile breaking across his face as he followed her.

Inside, the room was filled only with the sound of your daughter's cries and the quiet weeping of two parents who had finally made it through the storm.

House pulled back just enough to look at the baby, his wet blue eyes filled with a tenderness that seemed entirely new. He reached out a trembling, gloved finger, and your daughter’s tiny hand instinctively wrapped around it, holding on tight.

"Aurora," you whispered, the name you had kept hidden in your heart for months, too terrified to speak it aloud. "Our dawn."

"Aurora," House repeated, his voice thick with tears, his lips pressing a long, reverent kiss against your sweaty forehead, and then against the soft cheek of your daughter. "You're safe. We've got you."

-end

Your recovery was steady now, a day passed with ease, and you spent most of your time just reading or sleeping, occasionally you had flipped through the few channels on the blaring TV in your room with House, but neither of you was much captivated by it. House had just settled back into his chair, when Cameron appeared in the doorway, slightly breathless.

“There’s… someone here to see her,” she announced carefully.

House groaned, already annoyed. “Who is it now?”

But before Cameron could answer, a burst of small voices echoed down the hallway.

“Dr. Y/N!!”

House’s head snapped up just in time to see as a cluster of children rounded the corner, escorted by Dr. Santiago Vergara, the therapist of the Happy Hearts Health Center, the hospital you worked at.

The man with patient brown eyes, soft-spoken words, and a face House had always found irrationally irritating.

Your tired face lit up instantly though.

“Oh… my goodness-” you breathed, voice soft with affection. “You all came?”

“Of course we did!” chirped a tiny girl, Maya, with thick glasses in a light purple wheelchair covered in stickers.

“We told Santi we had to see you,” a boy announced, he walked up to your bed, holding up a little card he made of you surrounded by hearts.

Santiago gave you a warm, sympathetic smile. “They insisted…” he said gently. “And… I was worried about you too.”

House’s eyes narrowed. Of course he was.

“Thank you for bringing them.” you said with a truly grateful smile, inspecting the card Theo had given you before.

The other kids immediately swarmed your bedside, and Santi pushed Maya closer as well.

“Dr. Y/N, are you sick now?” asked Lina, clutching a glitter paint covered stone.

Another boy, Victor, just stood ominously by the edge of the bed, but by his troubled gaze you could tell he shared the worry of the other children.

“When are you coming back to read to us again?” Aisha asked, tugging your hospital gown sleeve.

You fought a wave of exhaustion and emotion but your smile stayed steady. “I’m okay, sweethearts… just a little tired. And I’ll be back soon… just not tomorrow.”

Then Vic turned toward House, eyes on him like he was trying to see right through him if he tried hard enough.

“Hi Dr. Y/N’s husband...” he said quietly. “Where’s your motorcycle? Did you drive it here? Can I see it?”

House blinked. Kids remembering him was bizarre enough, but then being asked all of these questions, even more so.

“The motorcycle’s fine,” he muttered, waving a dismissive hand. “It didn’t come inside with me, obviously.”

“Can we play sword fight with your cane?” Victor asked.

House yanked his cane a little closer. “Absolutely not.”

You laughed softly. “Vic, that cane is very important to him.”

“It’s practically an emotional support object.” Santiago chuckled warmly.

While House rolled his eyes, you gave Santiago a grateful look. “How are things at the hospital? The kids behaving?”

Santiago chuckled. “You know the answer.” He gave you a gentle once-over. “How are you?”

Before you could answer, House interrupted, “She’s fine. She just needs rest now.”

Santiago didn’t even flinch, eyebrows lifting in amusement. “I’ll leave that judgment to the professionals then…”

“I am the professional,” House said firmly, as if anyone questioned him.

You rolled your eyes and squeezed House’s hand, your voice warm but tired. “Both of you… behave.”

After a few more minutes of a lot of questions and you getting a few more drawings and cards, and Vic almost tripping over House’s cane, then the kids finally gathered at the doorway.

“It was really nice seeing you, Dr. Y/N!” Maya said, waving enthusiastically as Santiago wheeled her over to the door.

“Come back soon!” Aisha added.

Santiago gave you a soft nod. “Get some rest. We’ll keep things running until you’re back.”

House mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “show-off,” but he didn’t say it loud enough for you to scold him.

Once they were gone, Cameron stepped forward again. “We still need to go over some paperwork after the case, and Cuddy told me to remind you… you have clinic hours today.”

House let out a dramatic, anguished sigh. “Perfect. Just perfect.”

“It’s okay, honey… I’ll rest.” you said, leaning forward as you pressed a kiss against his cheek. “And I’ll see you before you go home?”

His tense shoulders softened just the tiniest bit, but he nodded. “Alright. I’ll come back.”

“I’ll be here.” you smiled sleepily and sank into your pillow.

He hesitated at the door, throwing one last lingering look at you, before limping away.

“I’ll see you later.”

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END OF CASE #010

Diagnosis: To be continued.

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Your breath choked in your throat, a violent jolt woke you up, sending a sharp ache through your lower abdomen. Your pulse thudded in your ears. The hospital room swam in and out of focus around you. Your throat tasted of metal and cotton. Something inside you felt hollow, sore and tender.

"I need air..." you whispered to no one but yourself.

Your IV pole rattled faintly as you swung your legs over the side of the bed. An ache bloomed deep in your pelvis, but not like the one that had plagued you before.

You ignored it completely. You reached for your black faux leather bag on your bedside table, taking it with you.

With slow, deliberate steps, you padded out of the room, still barefoot, still fogged with medication. Despite the concerned nurse insisting you go back to your room, it was late at night, cold and you were not supposed to be outside anyway. But you did walk exactly there.

Outside, the night air wrapped around you, the hospital courtyard was nearly empty, save for the sound of distant traffic.

Your fingers trembled as you were hit with the cold outside. Your lower abdomen pulsed with ache, as though warning you that you were pushing your luck with moving around.

You reached into your bag, the one House assumed held only strawberry lip balm, crumbled up receipts, and on some days a paperback copy of your favorite book.

Your fingers brushed the small metal case that hid inside.

You had quit, of course you had. According to him. According to yourself. According to the version of you you pretended to be right now.

But you hadn't thrown them away. You never did.

Your hands were still shaking slightly as you clipped it open, took one out, placed it between your lips, and fumbled with the navy lighter. The flame stuttered in the breeze but managed to light it still. You drew the smoke into your lungs, sharp and hot, burning down your throat, and let it out in a long, shuddering exhale.

The bitter taste lay in your mouth, familiar and shameful, an old habit that gave you comfort. The nicotine steadied your heartbeat in the wrong way, but it steadied it nonetheless.

You leaned back against the cold brick wall, eyes fluttering shut.

You took another drag.

The sliding door behind you squeaked open.

"Of course," came House's voice, unmistakably irritated. "I leave you alone for ten minutes..."

A hot rush of guilt flooded your veins, but it wasn't enough for you to move or stop.

He limped into view, cane thudding sharply against the pavement, but he seemed to falter in his step as he saw you there with your cigarette.

"...and you immediately try to develop an entirely different disease." he added, voice quieter, maybe more irritated.

You swallowed around the tight knot in your throat, forcing a shaky breath through your nose. You didn't put the cigarette out. Not yet.

"I needed... something familiar," you said softly.

House stared at you. Really stared, like you were wrong, not right, not real. He always assumed his wife wasn't this dumb. This stupid. "...Y/N, you just came out of anaesthesia."

"I know."

"And your hemoglobin is still low."

"I know."

"And your blood pressure-"

"Greg, I know!" you snapped.

The words stopped him cold from continuing to press further.

You hadn't smoked "in years."

Except for the days you did.

Except for the times you told yourself that was the last.

You exhaled smoke, staring at nothing.

House was still standing a few feet away, his gaze flicked from the cigarette to your hospital gown and IV, then back to your face, where you knew you didn't look like yourself.

"You really couldn't wait." he said, voice firm, thick with irritated sarcasm. "We remove your uterus, and your first instinct is: quick! let me ruin something else inside me!"

You didn't answer at first. You just took another drag, eyes narrowed at the horizon. "They took everything?"

He didn't speak. His gaze suddenly lacked all bite as his eyes found the floor.

"Yes," he said quietly. "They did." Usually they only removed the growths themselves, but the size and number of fibroids you had, forced them to remove your entire uterus or the tissue wouldn't heal properly with the amount of damage they had to do.

He moved closer, but not leaning against the wall beside you, like he wasn't sure if you wanted him near.

You swallowed, staring down at your cigarette as if seeing it for the first time.

But then he inhaled sharply, fingers curling around the handle of his cane. The guilt seeped through in the way he wouldn't meet your eyes.

"I should've known something was wrong sooner," he said, voice scraped thin. "I wasn't careful. I wasn't... paying enough attention."

You shook your head, the cigarette trembling between your fingers. "Greg, this isn't your fault. You can't pretend you're omniscient just because you hate being wrong."

A breeze passed between you. The courtyard was quiet. Just like the two of you.

After a moment, you spoke again, your voice gentler. "Where were you this morning? You said you'd come for the check. But... it was Foreman and Chase."

House stiffened.

He tried to shrug it away. "Overslept."

"House."

You said his name the way you only did when you saw through him completely.

He shut his eyes, defeated.

"...Fine," he muttered. 

"I got drunk," he said at last, rubbing his forehead. "Played piano until four. The Jeremy's will probably file a noise complaint. Again." The Jeremy's were your neighbours, unsurprisingly not big fans of House, or his piano, or other instruments.

You sighed, but there was no anger in it. "You were stressed," you said simply. "And you're an idiot when you're stressed."

You reached for him, your hand trembling a bit, until he took it, stepped a few steps closer to close the distance between you.

"Can I go home soon?" you asked, leaning your head against his arm.

"Soon," he said, squeezing your hand. "Once I know you're stable."

You smiled faintly, you brought the cigarette to your lips again, taking a puff full of smoke before you said, "I miss sleeping next to you."

He looked down at you, kissing the top of your head. "Lola's been stealing my socks..." he muttered. Lola was your cat, or as House liked to claim ‘just yours’. "She misses you too."

You breathed out a small laugh. You took one last drag of your cigarette, exhaled into the cold air, and finally let yourself lean against him.

He didn't move away.

He didn't let go of your hand, either.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

END OF CASE #009

Diagnosis: To be continued.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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✦ @wildly-free-bee ✦ @cl0u-dy ✦ @johnpricesho ✦ @kneelarmhstrung ✦ @localcrayoneater ✦ @urfinalg1rl ✦ @lune-caretaker ✦ @random-venusian ✦ @petijuno ✦ @thefemininemystiquee

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