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kiryiiiii · 1 year ago

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House's girl, part two — Gregory House x Daughter!Reader

Summary: House finally starts to genuinely care about someone, but they try to take that person away from him.

Warnings: talk of divorce and custody disputes (triggers for children of divorce like me, I imagine)

Author's notes: English is not my native language and I am from South America, so I don't know if my view of the court is authentic to that of the US. I did some research, but you never know!

Part one:

Three months ago, you began living with your father. Somehow, the two of you managed to establish a routine that brought a certain stability to the new arrangement. You would wake up at six-thirty in the morning on weekdays, and House, who got ready faster, always prepared a strawberry Pop-Tart for you. James would give you a ride to school at seven-thirty in the morning.

When you got home, sometimes at four, sometimes at six in the evening depending on your extracurricular activities, you would devote yourself to washing the dishes, aware that it was a task your father preferred to avoid. Your studies went on until eight at night, and often, your father would arrive around that time. He would bring food from the hospital cafeteria for you, usually a salad with meat and a bit of pasta. Over time, he noticed your love for pasta and liked to bring it for you whenever he could.

When your father arrived at that hour, you would take a break from studying to watch medical shows with him. On the occasions he came home later, which was quite common, he would go straight to bed without resorting to sleep aids. Although he used to rely on some substances to aid his sleep, he initially felt it would be inappropriate with you around, and then simply forgot the need for those medications.

On weekends, you dedicated yourself to studying, but also found time to keep your father company, whether by watching television together or quietly reading at the kitchen table. You both enjoyed watching old movies, like A Clockwork Orange and Psycho, as well as other classic Hitchcock thrillers.

While House followed a highly different and self-destructive routine on Saturdays and Sundays, he valued your presence, distancing himself, even if only temporarily, from the drugs and prostitutes that usually filled his days. He vividly recalled how challenging the first day you arrived at the house had been, but within just three days, the presence of another person had become an unexpected comfort. House couldn’t remember ever truly loving someone before; he had always associated love with pain. Yet, with you, it was strangely different. There was a genuine sense of melancholy and truth in paternal love that he had never experienced before.

He was still the same sarcastic and cynical man as before. The biting comments and natural teasing hadn’t disappeared; they remained, unshaken. Yet, something had changed. He knew that you weren’t just another person in his life — you were you.

•••

Saturday, November 5th:

You rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, noting that despite the changes since moving into your father's house, grocery shopping remained a persistent issue. Your father, who loathed going to the market, made his purchases erratically, buying only a few random items at convenience stores.

“There’s no food”, you said, glancing at your father, who was idly flipping through a newspaper.

“Have you considered learning to photosynthesize? We’d save money,” he replied with sarcasm.

“I’m hungry”

He sighed, put down the newspaper, and looked at you.

“Buy some food”

“Have you thought about going to the market yourself? Buying enough groceries for the month, preparing for a possible hurricane or any other natural disaster? Normal people do that.”

“Normal people, not incredible people like me”

“You should get treatment for that megalomania”, you said, shutting the kitchen cabinets with a bit more force than necessary.

“And you should work on your excessive use of big words to sound smarter” he retorted, pulling his wallet from his pants pocket and handing you a card. “Go shopping if that’s what you want. Call a cab to get to the market and another one to bring the groceries back”

“You’re coming with me”, you said firmly.

“Hey, I’m the parent here, I give the orders”, he retorted.

“Come with me”, you repeated. “You’re the responsible adult and need to fulfill your adult responsibilities.”

“Alright, Miss Bossy” he replied with an ironic smile. “When did you become so commanding? Has someone introduced you to my boss?”

•

When you both arrived home from the market, each carrying paper bags full of groceries, the nightmare began. The mailbox displayed a new letter, something that had probably arrived the day before and gone unnoticed by you until that moment — and, as usual, your father didn’t care enough to retrieve it.

You unloaded the groceries onto the kitchen counter and went back to retrieve the letter. It was addressed to your father and came from the New Jersey Court of Justice.

“Hey, dad,” you said, handing him the letter. “I think someone wants to arrest you.”

“You can’t even commit crimes in peace in this country”, he replied with an ironic tone.

As he opened the letter and read in silence, House's world seemed to collapse. It was one of the rare times he felt completely at a loss for words.

“Is everything okay?” you asked, concerned. “Wait, are they really trying to arrest you!?”

“No,” he answered in a low voice. He wasn’t sure which question he was answering, but the "no" seemed to apply to both “I need to go.”

And just like that, he left, clutching the letter, without explaining where he was going or what was happening.

•

Stacy Warner didn’t expect House to show up that Sunday. Since they had decided to part ways, House’s visits had always carried an unwelcome omen. They usually indicated a relapse on his part, an attempt to possess her merely to feed his ego. And with Mark, her current husband, present, the situation became even more uncomfortable and pointless.

“House, what are you doing here?” Stacy asked as she opened the door. The mention of his name drew Mark’s attention, who quickly joined her.

“You know you’re not welcome here, House,” Mark said, with a tone of disdain.

“Shut up, Mark,” House replied, frustration evident on his face.

“House! You can’t come here and talk to my husband like that,” Stacy exclaimed, exasperated

“I need legal help. I need lawyer Stacy, not my ex-wife Stacy,” House clarified, trying to stay focused.

“Are they finally going to revoke your medical license?” Mark asked sarcastically.

“Please, shut up,” House replied, and this time Stacy didn’t interrupt him.

Stacy invited him in and led him to her private office. The space was elegant and well-maintained, with tall dark wooden shelves filled with legal books. On the walls, diplomas and certificates hung, attesting to her experience and competence.

“What happened? Are they really trying to revoke your medical license?” Stacy asked, her tone serious, reflecting the gravity of the situation.

House didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he handed her the letter. Stacy opened it and began to read. In short, warned that your mother was asking for custody back, in addition to requesting a restraining order against his father.

“Y/N is living with you?” Stacy asked, perplexed. She was House’s second wife, and when they were together, you were still a young child. Stacy knew he had always met his legal obligations, paying child support on time, but she also knew he had little desire to take on parental responsibilities.

“For three months,” House replied.

“But why?”

“Because her mother decided to date a jerk who makes my daughter uncomfortable,” House answered angrily. “It was the police’s decision to send her to my house since I’m the closest relative and she wasn’t safe with the guy. The mother wouldn’t believe her.”

“And now she wants custody back?”

“Exactly.”

“You never wanted to take on the role of father to this girl. What 's changed?”

“What’s changed is that I’ve come to enjoy being her father, okay? Now help me. If she’s dating an abusive jerk, how can she possibly revoke custody?”

“I don’t know, House. Things aren’t so simple in the legal system. She might have broken up with the guy and is asking for a review of her current situation. Since she’s always been the one caring for Y/N, there’s a chance the judge might consider that. Plus…”

“Plus what?”

“She’s asking for a restraining order against you. She wants to present you as a danger to Y/N. She might use your drug history for that, which is a convincing argument.”

“I’m clean. I’m not a danger to my daughter; she’s just doing this to me because she hates me.”

“But you haven’t been clean for long, and you’ve never been actively involved in your daughter’s life. I can’t be entirely optimistic about your chances of winning the case.”

“I need you to help me. She’s the only thing that makes sense in my life, please, help me.”

“I’ll try, House.”

•

“Have you lost your mind?” you asked when your father came home. You were eating Ben & Jerry’s straight from the tub and watching old episodes of The Simpsons.

“What are you watching?” he asked, ignoring your judgment. He knew that leaving the house abruptly might have scared you, but at that moment, nothing mattered more than spending time with you.

“The Simpsons.” You paused and then asked, “Want to change the channel? Oh, wait, not being overly nice right?”

“Right,” he said with a small smile, sitting down beside you.

“Want some ice cream?”

“No,” he replied, and you both continued watching the show in silence.

Occasionally, House glanced at you, feeling a pang in his chest. It was the first time he truly cared about someone, truly loved someone, and they were trying to take that away from him. And it was the first time he felt a real need to fight for someone.

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kiryiiiii · 1 year ago

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House's girl, part one — House x Daughter! Reader

Summary: House learns to love his daughter.

Warnings: diet talk and harassment, but nothing too in-depth

Author's note: English is not my native language. I have an idea for a saga about this, but I want to see if anyone likes it first 😭😭

Part two:

SUNDAY

You rarely saw your father.

By the time you were born, your parents had already divorced, and he chose to remain largely uninvolved in your life. You knew your grandparents and received some Christmas and birthday presents, but nothing that made a lasting impact. Most of the time, he lived as though he weren’t a father at all.

Yet here you were, standing in front of his apartment, holding a suitcase with a few changes of clothes. Your mother had become involved with a man of questionable character — a manipulator with a minor criminal record that included harassment. You had reported him for making comments that made you uncomfortable, but your mother, who was deeply entangled with him, dismissed your concerns as lies. Consequently, the women's police station decided to send you to live with your father, as you had no other close relatives.

You knocked on door 221B and waited for about five minutes. “He must be trying to escape through the window, but luckily he’s limping,” you thought with a hint of irony.

“You actually came,” your father said as he opened the door.

“Sorry I didn’t choose to become a homeless person,” you replied.

He stepped aside to let you in. The apartment was surprisingly tidy, which took you aback; your mother had often complained about his disorganization. You couldn’t help but wonder if he had made an effort to clean up for your arrival.

“You’ll stay in the guest room; it’s the second door on the right.”

“Why do you have a guest room if you never have guests?”

“Sometimes, the prostitutes prefer not to sleep in the same room as me, especially when I hire many.”

“Did you know I’m only fourteen and that sexual jokes and exposure to excessive affection can damage my mind, like abuse?”

“Good thing it wasn’t a joke.”

You sighed deeply and walked to the guest room. It was a sparse space with just a bed and a dresser. As you quickly unpacked your clothes, you realized there was no suitable place to study— something you would need to address soon, especially with a math exam approaching.

“Where am I going to study?” you asked your father, who was sitting on the couch with a glass of whiskey. “You’re drinking at eight-thirty in the morning?” you added, somewhat perplexed.

“Are you studying at eight-thirty in the morning?” he retorted with irony. “Study in the kitchen; there’s a table there.”

“But there’s no door between the living room and the kitchen.”

“That’s really a shame.”

“If you watch TV, the noise will distract me. I have Sensory Processing Disorder and need a quiet environment.”

“I’ll buy a desk for your room tomorrow,” he said.

“But I need to study today.”

“One day won’t make a difference.”

“It does when you want to get into Harvard.”

“You’re in middle school; nobody studies in middle school.”

“Actually, I’m in high school. I’m three years ahead.”

“Oh my God, you’re so annoying,” he exclaimed, getting up and heading to his room. “Study in the kitchen in peace. I’ll stay in my room.”

“Don’t you have to go to the hospital?” you asked.

“Unfortunately, no,” he replied, slamming the door behind him. You didn’t mind the harsh tone; you had come for a place to stay, not for a father.

•••

MONDAY

You woke up at six-thirty, the same time as your father. With two bathrooms in the house, you both managed to get ready without crossing paths.

When you met in the kitchen for breakfast, a heavy silence lingered. He served himself without offering you anything, but you had learned the previous day that if you didn’t help yourself, you’d end up going hungry.

You helped yourself to Pop Tarts and a cup of black coffee.

“Aren’t you a bit young for coffee?” your father asked.

“It’s a legal drug, and there are no age restrictions,” you replied.

He didn’t respond, and silence settled between you again. The next sound was the doorbell, followed by the creak of the door opening.

“Hey, House,” a man said as he entered. Seeing you, he paused, visibly shocked. “Is this your daughter?”

“Touché,” your father replied, his tone a blend of sarcasm and resignation.

James Wilson knew that House had a daughter and understood that, despite his reluctance, he cared about her. However, seeing you there was still a surprise.

“My name is James Wilson. I’m a friend of your father’s,” James said, extending his hand for a handshake.

“My dad has friends?” you asked, surprised, making James laugh.

“Alright, alright, that was a really funny joke,” House interrupted. “Let’s head to the hospital; I don’t want to be late.”

“You’re always late, House,” James retorted. “We’ll drop your daughter off at school first.”

“Seriously? Thank you so much!” you said, thrilled, and dashed to grab your backpack.

As you left, James turned to House. “Don’t look at me like that. I know you care about her.”

•

You arrived home at four in the afternoon, utterly exhausted. After studying late into the night and barely catching glimpses of your father throughout the day, you felt the weight of the long hours. Whenever he did venture into the kitchen, it was in silence, leaving you to wonder whether he was avoiding conversation or simply giving you space.

Heading straight to the kitchen, you rummaged through the sparse offerings. With little more than cereal and Pop Tarts available, you poured yourself some cereal — without milk, as there was none. As you were eating, the doorbell rang.

“Yes?” you called out, opening the door to find a tall, burly man holding a clipboard.

“Gregory House?” he asked.

“This is his house. I’m his daughter.”

“He requested that a study desk be delivered here.”

You smiled to yourself as you let the man in. He proceeded to set up the desk in your room, a small but meaningful gesture from your father.

•••

TUESDAY

You hadn’t seen your father the day before. When he came home, you were already asleep. Besides setting up the study desk, he called later to let you order some food, a small sign that he was making an effort, however minimal.

The next morning, as you both sat down for breakfast, you decided to strike up a conversation, unsure of how receptive he would be.

“How was the hospital yesterday?” you asked.

“Hmm?” he responded, looking up, surprised by the question.

“Any interesting cases?” you pressed.

“A girl with cancer having hallucinations.”

“Was the tumor pressing on the brain?” you inquired.

“No, the tumor was in the heart.”

“…A clot?” you guessed.

“Exactly.” House paused, impressed by your accuracy. He knew you were intelligent, having skipped grades and attended a prestigious school on a scholarship. However, he hadn’t realized your aptitude for medicine. “Do you like medicine?”

“A lot,” you replied. “My dream has been to become a doctor since I was nine. I attend pre-med camps, study whenever I can, read extensively about it, and watch medical shows to guess the diagnoses.”

“I enjoy doing that too,” he said, taking a sip of coffee.

“I was wondering if I could read your medical books.”

“If you can.”

“My reading level is quite advanced. I might not understand everything right away, but I’ll research what I don’t get. And my dad’s a doctor, so I can ask him about it,” you said with a sideways smile, almost catching a glimpse of a smile on his lips.

Moments later, Wilson arrived to take them out. As he dropped you off at school, House mentioned to him that you were aspiring to a medical career and were very intelligent. It was the first time Wilson saw House display genuine pride.

•

When you arrived home that day, it was the first time in days you could truly relax, free from looming exams or relentless homework. You took a shower and settled into the living room, turning on a cartoon — your favorite way to unwind.

As you were engrossed in an episode of The Flintstones, your father came in.

“Aren’t you studying?” he asked, surprised. It was the first time he’d seen you doing anything other than studying since you arrived. To him, it seemed you were engaged in it constantly.

“My exams are over for now. When I finish a round of exams, I take a day off. And you, why are you home early?”

“There was nothing to do.”

“Did the patient die?”

“No, he recovered.”

“Congratulations.”

“Why?”

“For not having killed him.” House wasn’t sure if you were being serious or sarcastic, but he didn’t care.

He limped over to the refrigerator, grabbed a beer, and sat down next to you. This surprised you; you had expected him to retreat to his room.

“That cartoon isn’t from your era,” he remarked.

“Yes, but I prefer the old ones. Do you want to change the channel?”

“Don’t be overly nice; it’s annoying. You want to watch the cartoon and you got here first, so go ahead.”

You nodded and the room fell into a comfortable silence. Occasionally, you glanced at your father, noticing him getting caught up in the cartoon, even suppressing laughter at some scenes.

After a while, he asked, “Want to order a pizza?”

“I ate out yesterday.”

“So what?”

“My mom only lets me eat out once a week at most. She says it’s unhealthy and makes you fat.”

“Good to know your mother’s paranoias haven’t changed. I’m a doctor, and you know what’s worse than eating out? Not eating at all. Do you want pizza?”

“I guess so.”

“Then call and order it.”

You followed his instructions, ordering your favorite pizza. When it arrived, you ate it in the living room—another thing your mother would never allow. After the cartoon ended, your father switched to a medical drama. You watched in silence until, midway through an episode, he paused and looked at you.

“So, what do you think?” he asked.

“Pardon?” you replied, confused.

“Sudden and inexplicable nail disintegration, colorful and shiny mucous lesions in the mouth, temporary and recurrent inability to recognize faces, rapid and unpredictable changes in blood pressure, and intense heat sensation without fever. What is it?”

“Are you serious?"

“You said you’re good at this, right?”

You paused, considering.

“Stiff-Person Syndrome?”

“I need you to be sure.”

“Stiff-Person Syndrome. It’s a rare autoimmune condition that can lead to progressive muscle rigidity and pain, along with various neurological symptoms like motor difficulties and changes in sensory perception.”

“Great. You’re better than my team,” he said.

You watched two more episodes before falling asleep. In the middle of the night, you woke to find yourself covered and with your foot adjusted for comfort. You smiled, knowing that your father had made sure you were tucked in for a good night’s rest.

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