#cuddys expressions are everything

[thankstothe]

💐xoxo💐

[purrassicjet]

OHOHO I JUST FINISHED SEASON 6 AND IT IS QUITE THE SEASON!! I CAN'T WAIT TO START SEASON 7!! I'M GIDDY THAT WAS A GOOD EPIOSDE

[vigilante-3073]

Can you please write an imagine in which reader is pregnant with her and house’ kid and something happens and she collapses and gets sent home to bed rest. Perhaps house isn’t there initially, like maybe they work in different departments and he’s with a high priority case and Cuddy isn’t releasing him and then Wilson tells him what’s going on

Bedrest & Complicated Cases

Gregory House x Pregnant Female Doctor Reader

Summary: Y/N is six months pregnant and experiences a complication. House is dealing with a delicate case and Cuddy chooses not to inform him.

TW: Mentions of medical terms/conditions, lying, brief mention of politics/dictatorship.

Y/N worked on patient files quietly in her office after a long day of seeing patients. She shifted in her seat as an uncomfortable sensation began to appear in her stomach and lower back. Y/N took a breath, smoothing a hand over her bump as she waited for it to pass.

Braxton hicks contractions were common, especially as the pregnancy progressed but this felt different. The pain was constant, it felt like her muscles were being torn apart. Y/N stood up from her seat with a grimace, she moved around her desk with a hand on her belly.

Y/N paused, crying out in pain as blood began to soak into the material of her pants. Y/N's hand shot out to her desk, it landed on a pile of stacked files that slipped out from under her palm. Y/N fell, her head collided with the edge of the desk as she landed on the floor.

Y/N had lost consciousness and no one had any idea that she was injured. House was working on a complicated case, Cuddy was supervising him and Wilson was with his patients.

No one had any idea how long she had been on the floor when Wilson finally found her. Y/N was admitted right away and her obstetrician was notified.

Y/N had a partial placental abruption, she lost quite a bit of blood and was having contractions. They were able to get her on a drug called magnesium sulfate in an attempt to stop her labor.

The contractions began to slow, but there was still the potential for an early birth. Y/N was given a blood transfusion and corticosteroids to speed up the baby's lung development.

Wilson stayed by her side throughout everything, "Where is House?" Y/N asked softly. She was weak and exhausted with a possible concussion.

"He's on a case," Wilson said. A pit was beginning to form in his stomach as she looked over at him with a terrified expression.

"Does he know?" She asked.

"Not yet, no," Wilson replied.

Y/N looked down at her bump, hand settling on her skin as she took a shaky breath. Wilson watched her eyes begin to fill with tears as she struggled to keep herself from crying.

"I-I'll go get him," Wilson said, standing up from his seat beside her bed.

"Wait, I don't want to be alone," Y/N mumbled.

"Whatever you need," He nodded, sitting back down.

Wilson pulled out his phone and sent a message to Cuddy.

'She needs him.' He typed.

Cuddy's reply was almost instant, 'How bad is it?' She'd asked.

'Partial abruption, stage two. They were able to stop contractions but are monitoring the baby for distress. She's on magnesium sulfate and corticosteroids but she also needed a transfusion,' Wilson typed back.

'Stay with her. We need him on this case.' She replied, leaving no room for argument

Wilson grimaced before tucking his phone into his pocket, "What's wrong? Is he not coming?" Y/N questioned.

"He's held up with something," Wilson said.

Y/N nodded, fingers brushing lightly across her bump as she sniffled softly.

"I'm sorry," Wilson said.

"It's fine," Y/N said shakily, brushing away a tear with trembling hands.

Wilson couldn't stand to see her upset, the idea of keeping this information from House was eating him up inside. The case that House was dealing with was important, but the life of his wife and child should be more important.

The case was proving to be difficult for the team, their patient was President Dibala and he was an African dictator. Hundreds of thousands of people would lose their lives if he was cured and the ethical dilemma complicated things.

House was able to compartmentalize easily, but Cameron's strong opinions and moral compass made her one of the worst people to be treating the president. Chase tried to keep her in check, but she was struggling to maintain her objectivity.

The last thing Wilson heard was that there was an assassination attempt against Dibala. He could understand why Cuddy wanted House to stay on the case and remain focused, but it still made him uncomfortable.

Wilson stayed by Y/N's side until she eventually fell asleep and he was able to step away. Wilson went straight to House's office, he lingered by the door as they went through another differential.

House noticed him and dismissed his team members, they filed out of the conference room and made their way back to the patient's room.

"House, I need to talk to you," Wilson said.

"I'm in the middle of something, it can wait," House stated, staring at the whiteboard.

"No, it can't... It's Y/N," Wilson said.

House looked over at him, "What happened?" He questioned.

...

Y/N opened her eyes, grimacing as her head pounded under the harsh fluorescent lights. She closed her eyes, hoping that the throbbing in her temples would resolve itself.

"Where does it hurt?" Someone asked.

Y/N opened her eyes, looking over to find House sitting at her bedside. His eyes ran over her body before glancing up at the machines that were keeping track of her and the baby's vitals.

"My head," Y/N mumbled.

"You have a concussion. It's gonna hurt," House stated.

He stood up from his seat, grabbing his cane and moving over to the door. He shut off the lights in the room before returning to his chair.

"Where were you?" Y/N asked.

"Doesn't matter, I'm here now," He said.

Y/N settled back against the pillows, her hands rested on bump as she looked down at herself.

"Is she moving?" House asked, Y/N nodded.

"I was scared that I was going to lose her... The pain was terrible and there was so much blood," She said shakily.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here, but she's okay and you're okay," House stated.

"The doctor put me on bedrest for the remainder of the pregnancy," Y/N said.

"I figured," He nodded.

"How are we going to do this, Greg?" Y/N questioned, already sounding defeated.

"We'll figure it out. I'll reduce my hours and we can hire someone to help around the house in the meantime," House said.

Y/N took a breath, "Don't worry," House stated.

"I'm not," Y/N replied.

"Your heart rate says otherwise," House said, glancing up at the vitals machine.

Y/N smiled slightly, "Well, I'm trying not to worry," She said.

House stayed by her side overnight, his case was overly complicated and resulted in the death of President Dibala. Cuddy was right to encourage House to maintain his focus on the case but it was an impossible situation.

The circumstances surrounding Dibala's death were murky, but House couldn't bring himself to care. It was true that the president was a bad person and his ideas would damage an entire population, but it was still a black mark on his record.

House's significant other and their child needed to take priority.

...

Y/N had been on bedrest for three weeks and she was absolutely miserable. She read every book she had intended to and watched all the trash television that she could stomach.

House did as he promised and limited his hours, during difficult cases he asked Wilson to check up on her. Wilson had been a vital part of their support system in the last few weeks.

Wilson helped them to assemble the furniture for the nursery and finish painting the walls. He cooked for Y/N when House wasn't able to and had just been an incredible help during this time.

Y/N was incredibly bored, but Wilson did everything he could to keep her spirits up. He knew that it must have been awful to be trapped in the house for such a long period of time.

He never came to their home empty-handed, he always brought snacks, gifts or flowers for Y/N. House appreciated his friend's kindness and let Wilson know that their door was always open to him.

House made his way into the apartment, tossing his keys into the dish and shrugging off his coat. House laid it over the back of the couch, pushing the door shut with his cane and making his way down the hallway to the bedroom.

Wilson sat in the chair beside the bed as Y/N sat with her back against the headboard. A laundry basket of various baby items sat on the bed beside her.

Y/N folded the items and set them in a stack on the bed next to her. Wilson folded the items in his own basket, gaze focused on the television.

"She did not sleep with his best friend, did she?" Wilson asked, not daring to pull his eyes away from the screen.

"Oh yeah, they've been sleeping together for at least two seasons in secret," Y/N said.

"No way. The cameras follow them everywhere, how could they find the time?" He questioned.

Y/N shrugged, "They stay up until four in the morning and sleep until two. They start every day with a pilates class and spend hours binge drinking while arguing. All they have is time," She said, folding a fluffy pink blanket.

"Sorry to interrupt your little watch party, but I'm home," House said.

"We're one episode away from the tell all, you have to let us finish the season," Wilson stated, folding up a baby onsie.

"My god, what happened to you?" House muttered, kicking off his shoes and laying down in the bed beside his wife.

"This is the best show to ever be invented," Wilson said, gesturing to the television.

"Sure it is. Wake up me up when it's over," House said, crossing his arms and settling back into the pillows as he closed his eyes.

Things had been complicated, but they were figuring it out and taking things one day at a time. The baby was growing and Y/N hadn't had any bleeding since that first incident.

She had a magnificent support system around her and she leaned on them in her time of need.

House may not have been everyone's favorite person, but Y/N was. She had always been kind and everyone who met her loved her.

It was shocking that he was the one she wound up falling in love with but you can't help it sometimes. House loved her and he was grateful that her and the baby were alright.

[h0useslut]

and you spoke some quick new music, that went so far to soothe this soul ᝰ.ᐟ

pairing : gregory house x fem! coworker! reader

w/c : 1,3k

genre : romance, slow burn, tiny bit of angst!

warnings : brief emotional distress, mentions of patient death, comfort after crying, house being house.

summary : house didn’t do emotions, until his soft hearted, and confident cardiologist walked in. one tearful confession and a kiss later, he finally understood what it meant to come alive when someone called him baby.

a/n : this is my first fic ever, so please be nice 🫶🏻 anyway, hope you enjoy!

⋆౨ৎ ₊˚ 🦢・₊✧ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆౨ৎ ₊˚ 🦢・₊

Gregory House wasn’t one to deal with emotions. Or be so far gone, that his brain turned into mush.

Enter you.

You were significantly new to the team, a cardiologist. In the beginning, House was so sure he didn't need you. Younger than him, so sure of yourself and confident, he felt conflicted by your presence.

Only when his newest patient became another ticking bomb, already on their deathbed did he stop being so stubborn. Despite his selfishness, he knew your diagnosis was the best one to go with.

He wouldn't ever really admit it, but you earned his respect. Somehow.

Days passed, and he couldn't ignore your sweet persona anymore. Yes, it got to his nerves at some point, but he couldn't help but glance at you whenever you thought he wasn't looking.

It started with the smallest things.

Watching the way your brows furrowed, or how your entire expression changed as you scribbled on notes and tried to concentrate on the case. He watched you like you held the whole world in your hands — whether you were laughing with Cameron, or a patient's story clung to you more than you let on.

And you weren't oblivious to it either.

To say you didn't have a tiny crush on Gregory House would be a lie. But being his usual self, you didn't want to mix business with pleasure. Even though you could physically feel your heart leaping out of your chest whenever you caught him staring. It was like he was seeing right through you — Through your soul. And it made you both thrilled and terrified.

Wilson confronted him first, and even Cuddy teased him about it. He tried to act nonchalant, distant… But it didn't work. You'd gotten under his skin, and there was no turning back.

''House you can't just suffer in silence'' Spoke Wilson, concern etched on his face. He saw his best friend looking completely hopeless around you, quite literally missing the oh-so-familliar bite and sarcasm. It was unusual to see him so… In lack of his coldness.

House didn't even reply. He looked at Wilson with a frown on his face and just scoffed. ''You know, you can talk to her about it… Ask her out?'' James suggested, still trying to get him to loosen up a little.

''Yeah, as if that solves everything. Not a chance'' He snapped. He wanted his words to sound emphatic, filled with venom. They didn't though. They were missing the usual bite, and even he felt defeated.

''Fine, sulk around her a little more. See if she reads your mind'' Wilson mocked him, shoving him away from his office.

House could barely concentrate that day. Even if he tried to, you and his conversation wih Wilson made him lose his mind. Sitting in his office, he didn't hear the click of your shoes until you sat on one of the chairs, facing him.

''Hey,'' you said, your voice sounding a little shakier than you intended to. House immediately picked up on your distress, and his brows furrowed.

''Out with it''' He spoke, still attempting to sound stern. His voice carried a gentleness that was foreign to your ears, let alone his.

Fiddling with your hands in your lap, you opened your mouth. Nothing came out. He was the last person someone would go to for comfort… So why were you there? Why did you feel the need to look for his reassurance when the man probably didn't even like you in the first place? Sighing again, you decided to finally tell him what was going on.

''We lost him — um the patient. Did everything we could. I did everything I could. The team wanted me to tell you.'' You said hating how your lips trembled, or your voice shook.

House was silent for a moment. He didn't know whether to say something completely cynical or do something about the fact that you were distressed.

''Okay'' He muttered. Laconically, sharply and firmly.

Another beat of silence.

''Do you really think that you were hired just because I wanted to see you screw up? Patients die, patients get to live another day. I'm not going to say it wasn't your fault, or that it is. But you're not screwed. You're not done.'' His tone wasn't mean, although stern this time. He wasn't scolding you, or snapping at you, It was House's way of grounding someone — especially you.

Your shaky hand came to brush some strands of hair from your face. Your chest felt tighter with each breath, and you swallowed the frowing lump in your throat.

''I dont know—'' You stammered, but the way he cut you off was a lot sharper than before.

''You don't know what''

''Here you are, t-telling me that technically I'm not fired, but your attitude always makes me feel like I'm on the brink of getting fired. What the hell am I to this team, House?'' You confessed, chest rising and falling rapidly with each shaky breath. A single tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.

His eyes widened slightly —just for a second— and then he stood up. He motioned for you to rise, and when you did, he stepped in closer. So close, that you could smell the faint trace of his cologne and feel the heat of his presence.

''What you are to the team?'' Is that what you want to know?'' He echoed, voice low. ''Or are you asking what you are to me?'' Oh, and that smirk — That sly, almost devilish smirk was curved on his lips like a question of its own.

''I—'' You opened your mouth, but before you even got the chance to speak, someone walked in his office. Wilson. Of course.

Both of you stepped back, but you were the first to leave hurriedly. Muttering a few strained apologies as you exited his office, you desperately searched for a quiet corner — before you fell apart.

You could hear them yelling, mostly Wilson's voice echoing through the hall. Then, silence. You heard hurried footsteps, and the shadow of his cane warned you before you saw him.

''Y/N...'' He croaked out, panting. He stood in front of you, wishing he could erase the distress from your face.

With shaky legs, you got up. ''Yes Dr. House. I want— I wish to know what I mean to you'' You uttered, broken voice betraying the cold facade you wanted to keep in front of him.

'What do you mean to me?'' His tone was filled with gruffness, making shivers run down your spine.

Time slowed —your breaths mixed, and suddenly— His hands gripped your wrists in a firm, but not hurtful manner.

''Tell me'' You pressed, your voice barely above a whisper.

''Even better, I might show you'' It was supposed to be sarcastic, but the warmth in his entire demeanour betrayed him.

Before you had the time to comprehend his words, his lips crashed into yours. In a slow— agonising way. Your body went numb, letting him kiss you with full force now. His hands found home in your waist, drawing you completely against him.

Oh my god.

You were kissing.

You were kissing Gregory House.

And god, you hadn't expected it to be like that. Like everything you needed.

He was the first to pull back — all breathless and flushed.

''You— We—'' You stammered.

''What you are to me…'' He whispered, his hand coming to rest on your cheek. ''It couldn't be described with words.''

Your heart almost did backflips. Your smaller hand came to cover his— A kiss to your forehead now.

''Good'' You exhaled, standing up to your tiptoes. Lips brushing against the shell of his ear, you whispered

''I don't think words are what we need baby''

And that...

That was it for him.

Some part of Gregory House came alive the first time that you called him baby.

[hyuniemyunie]

The Weight of What We Carry

gregory house, james wilson, allison cameron, robert chase and eric foreman x gn reader

sfw

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(ФωФ): reverse comfort, comforting them after a patient dies, hurt to comfort, established relationship.

no cuddy cuz i dont wanna. i know my inbox is closed but I'll accept house md requests😭🙏 so if you have a house md request go ahead.

group solo whatever doesnt matter im HYPERFIXATIIIIINGGGGGG WOOOOOOO

next house md post is PROBABLY group, domestic life version? no idea.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･

No One Tends to the Healer

The apartment smelled like rain and something bitter—probably the coffee House had left on the burner for too long. It was half-past nine when you finally unlocked the door, shrugging off your jacket with fingers stiff from the chill outside. You didn’t call out to him, didn’t need to. The moment you stepped inside, the silence told you everything.

You toed off your shoes and made your way toward the living room. There he was: slouched on the couch like a marionette with cut strings, bottle of cheap whiskey dangling from two loose fingers. The TV flickered muted reruns against the walls, bathing the room in ghostly light. His cane was abandoned somewhere near the coffee table, forgotten, as if even the effort to fake functionality had been too much tonight.

You crossed the room quietly and lowered yourself onto the couch beside him. He didn’t look at you at first, just kept his bleary, guarded gaze fixed somewhere in the space between the coffee table and the TV.

"You’re home late," he said eventually, voice rough, words slurred just a hair—not enough for most people to notice, but you weren’t most people.

"Got caught in the rain," you answered, gentle, tugging the bottle from his fingers before he could protest. He let you. That alone was worrying.

The bottle clinked softly against the hardwood as you set it down, and you turned to face him fully. His eyes—those icy blue eyes that had once seemed sharp enough to cut glass—were dull tonight.

"You wanna tell me what happened?" you asked. No accusations. No prodding. Just an offer.

House barked a laugh, low and humorless, before finally looking at you. His expression was a mess of exhaustion and anger and something underneath it all that almost looked like fear. "Patient died," he said bluntly, as if daring you to react.

You didn’t flinch. You just nodded, your heart tugging painfully inside your chest. You knew better than to offer cheap condolences. He hated that. Hated pity, hated hollow reassurances.

"Wasn’t your fault," you said, but only after a pause long enough to show you weren’t parroting the obvious. "You did everything you could."

House shifted uncomfortably, like your words were knives he didn’t want to admit were hitting their mark. He leaned his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

"They all say that," he muttered. "Cuddy, Wilson, the team. All the same bullshit. ‘You did your best, House.’ ‘No one could have done better, House.’" He turned his head, looked at you with a sneer that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Know what the truth is? I missed something. I missed something and he died."

You shook your head slowly. "No. The truth is, you’re human. You get tired. You make mistakes. Sometimes things happen that are out of your control. And you hate that, you hate not being god."

He stared at you for a long beat, and for once, had no snarky retort.

You reached out, brushing your fingers lightly over the back of his hand. He flinched—barely, a muscle jumping in his jaw—but he didn’t pull away.

"You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders every damn day, House," you said softly. "You walk around like you’re invincible because if you don’t, if you stop for even a second and admit you’re not...you’re scared you’ll break."

His breathing was uneven now, nostrils flaring slightly, as if he was fighting something much bigger than pride.

"And that’s okay," you continued. "You’re allowed to break. You’re allowed to fall apart."

Another silence stretched between you, dense and heavy. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, House slumped forward, resting his forehead against your shoulder. It was a clumsy, ungraceful motion, but it shattered something inside you nonetheless.

You shifted to wrap your arms around him, pulling him against you properly. He was stiff at first, rigid and reluctant, he didn’t know how to accept comfort. But when you didn’t let go, when you just stayed there, silent and solid, you felt it—the slight sagging of his frame, the way his hands came up, hesitant, to clutch weakly at the back of your shirt.

"You’re not alone," you murmured into his hair, the scent of him—whiskey, rain, soap—filling your lungs. "You don’t have to carry it all by yourself."

He made a sound then, something raw and choked off, and you felt your heart break all over again.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. You lost track, content to simply hold him as the storm raged outside. His breathing evened out eventually, though he never moved away. His weight against you grew heavier, more trusting.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible. "You’re too good to me."

You smiled faintly, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Someone has to be."

He let out a shaky breath that might have been a laugh if you squinted hard enough.

"You’re gonna get tired of this eventually," he muttered. "Of me."

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, your fingers threading through his graying hair in a soothing, absent motion. "I’m not going anywhere," you said firmly. "You’re stuck with me, House."

There was something in his gaze then, something so unguarded it made your chest ache. Vulnerability, laid bare. Trust, fragile and tentative but there nonetheless.

"God, you’re stupid," he said, and there was real affection in the insult, a House-brand admission of love.

"Maybe," you said with a shrug. "But so are you."

He huffed, a tired, breathy laugh, and you took it as a victory.

"You gonna let me take care of you tonight?" you asked, voice soft.

He hesitated. That instinctive, ingrained stubbornness warred visibly across his face. But finally, with a slight nod, he gave in.

You helped him up carefully, mindful of his leg, mindful of the way he leaned into you a little more than usual. No jokes. No quips. Just the heavy, weary acceptance of someone who’d been fighting alone for too long.

In the bedroom, you coaxed him onto the bed, pulling off his shoes and helping him out of his rumpled button-down. His body was littered with old scars, the map of a man who’d survived far more than anyone should have to. You treated each one with silent reverence as you tucked him beneath the covers.

When you slid in beside him, he turned wordlessly into your arms, his head finding the familiar crook of your neck. You threaded your fingers through his hair again, slow and rhythmic.

"You don’t always have to be strong," you whispered against his forehead. "Not with me."

He didn’t answer, but the way he clutched at you, the way he breathed against your skin, said more than words ever could.

And as the rain softened against the windowpanes, as the storm outside began to quiet, you stayed there with him—his anchor in the aftermath, his shelter when the world got too heavy.

For once, Gregory House allowed himself to lean on someone else.

And you held him, steady and sure, until the storm passed—inside and out.

When the Caregiver Crumbles

The door clicked softly behind you as you entered the apartment, shaking the rain from your umbrella with a few half-hearted flicks. The floor creaked under your steps; the place was almost too quiet, save for the faint tick of the kitchen clock and the low rumble of thunder outside.

You shrugged off your coat, draping it over the nearest chair, and caught sight of him out of the corner of your eye. Wilson sat on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, hands steepled tightly under his chin. His usually polished appearance was disheveled—tie askew, shirt sleeves wrinkled, hair mussed like he’d been raking his fingers through it for hours. His eyes, those warm brown eyes that could coax confessions and comfort from the most stubborn souls, were dull and rimmed with red.

You crossed the room slowly, as if afraid a single loud move would shatter the fragile, brittle air around him. He didn’t even look up when you knelt in front of him, resting your hands lightly on his knees.

"Hey," you said, voice soft, threading its way into the heavy silence between you. "Talk to me, Jamie."

His mouth twitched into something that might’ve been a smile under different circumstances, but it fell apart before it could even form. He dropped his hands and finally looked at you, and the raw devastation in his face made your chest ache.

"I lost her," he said, the words cracking apart like brittle glass.

You didn’t need to ask which patient he meant. Evelyn—the young woman he'd been treating for months, pouring every ounce of his knowledge and compassion into her case. She was only twenty-eight. You squeezed his knees gently, grounding him.

"I did everything," he said, voice rising just slightly, hoarse and angry and broken. "Every treatment, every trial, every last-ditch effort. I fought for her. I fought."

"I know you did," you murmured.

"It wasn't enough." His fists clenched in his lap, knuckles whitening. "She was supposed to get better. She trusted me. Her family trusted me." His face twisted, a strangled breath rattling out of him. "And now she's gone, and they’re left picking up the pieces, and I'm sitting here pretending like my whole world didn’t just collapse too."

You rose from your crouch slowly, gently, and slid onto the couch beside him, curling your body around his trembling frame. He didn’t resist when you pulled him against you, his head dropping heavily onto your shoulder. His hands gripped your sides, almost desperate in their need for something, anything solid.

"You’re allowed to grieve too," you whispered into his hair, fingers smoothing soothing circles against his back. "You're allowed to be devastated, James. You loved her in your own way. You fought for her like she was family."

He made a broken, wounded sound deep in his throat and tightened his hold on you.

"They always say not to get attached," he choked out. "‘Stay professional, Wilson. Stay objective.’ But how do you watch someone waste away and not care? How do you smile at them, encourage them, sit with them through the worst moments of their life, and just…detach?"

"You don’t," you said simply. "You can't. That's what makes you good, James. That’s what makes you human."

He shook his head violently against your shoulder. "It’s killing me," he whispered. "It’s killing me every time."

You cupped the back of his head, pressing a kiss to his temple, your heart breaking anew with every shattered word that fell from his lips.

"You carry so much," you said, your voice trembling despite yourself. "You give everything you have to everyone else and never keep anything for yourself. No one sees how much it tears you apart. But I do, I see you."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face crumpled and vulnerable in a way few had ever seen. His hands came up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing under your eyes like he was trying to memorize you.

"I don't know how to stop," he confessed, voice wrecked and bare. "I don't know how to stop caring."

"Good," you said fiercely, taking his face in your hands. "Don’t. The world doesn’t need another cold, detached doctor. It needs you. It needs someone who fights and cares and hurts when they lose someone."

He blinked hard, a tear escaping despite his best efforts. You caught it with your thumb, stroking his cheek gently.

"You don't have to be strong right now," you murmured. "You don't have to be the caregiver tonight. Let me take care of you, James."

For a moment, he just stared at you, as if the offer was too big, too impossible to accept. But then he exhaled a long, shuddering breath and leaned into you fully, burying his face against your neck. You wrapped your arms around him tightly, holding him together piece by piece.

"You won’t scare me away," you promised, voice steady against the storm inside him. "I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere."

The hours passed in a haze of rain and broken whispers. You coaxed him into lying down with you, tugging a blanket over both your bodies. He fit himself against you like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go. You didn’t try to fill the silence with empty words. You just held him, ran your fingers through his hair, pressed kisses to his forehead every so often, murmured his name when he trembled.

He drifted in and out of restless sleep, clinging to you like a man adrift at sea. Once, he woke with a strangled gasp, the grief clawing its way out of his chest, and you soothed him with gentle hands and soft shushing sounds, rocking him slightly.

In the early morning, when the sky began to lighten with the hesitant colors of dawn, Wilson shifted to look at you properly. His face was raw and unguarded, stripped of the charming, put-together façade he wore for everyone else.

"I don't deserve you," he said hoarsely, his hand trembling slightly where it touched your cheek.

You caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to the inside of it. "You deserve the whole damn world, James Wilson," you said fiercely. "You deserve someone who sees every piece of you and loves you more because of it."

He made a choked, broken noise and leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours.

"I love you," he whispered, so quietly you almost missed it.

"I love you too," you whispered back, your heart aching with the sheer weight of it.

And there, in the thin, tender light of a new day, James Wilson allowed himself, for once, to be held. To be cared for. To be loved without condition, without expectation.

And you stayed, arms wrapped tight around him, promising silently with every beat of your heart that you would never let him bear the weight of the world alone again.

Beneath the Armor

The hospital air clung to you, a sterile, humming presence you couldn’t quite shake off even after you stepped into your shared apartment. You set your bag down quietly, glancing toward the living room where the light was still on.

Foreman sat on the couch, hunched forward, his elbows digging into his thighs, one hand tangled in his hair. He was still in his scrubs, a slight tremor running down the lines of his back. Normally so composed, so unshakable—it jolted something inside you to see him like this, brittle and breaking under a weight no one else seemed to notice.

You moved slowly, giving him time to sense you before you got too close. Foreman hated being ambushed, hated feeling cornered. But when your knees brushed against his and he finally looked up at you, the ironclad mask he always wore had already cracked down the center. His eyes, usually sharp and commanding, were glassy with grief he hadn't found words for yet.

You dropped down onto the coffee table in front of him, close enough that your knees brushed with every breath he took.

"I screwed up," he said, voice so low you had to lean in to catch it. "Kid came in—seizures, confusion. I missed it. Missed a tumor pressing on his brain stem. By the time I realized..." His mouth twisted, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he forced himself through it. "He died on the table before we could do anything."

Your heart broke for him, but you didn’t say anything yet. He wasn’t ready for soft words. He needed space to let the flood out.

"I don't miss things like that," he ground out, hands tightening into fists. "I don't. I'm supposed to catch it, I'm supposed to know better, be better—" He broke off with a ragged breath, turning his face away, as if ashamed to even look at you.

"You’re human," you said finally, voice even, calm against the whirlwind he was drowning in. "You’re allowed to make mistakes."

He laughed, but there was no humor in it—just bitterness, sharp and scalding.

"Not me. Not Foreman. Not the guy who pulled himself up from nothing, who had to be twice as good just to be seen as equal. I can’t afford mistakes." He dragged his hands down his face, exhausted. "One mistake, and it’s proof. Proof that I was never good enough to be here in the first place."

You scooted closer, until your hands rested lightly on his thighs, grounding him.

"You're not a statistic," you said firmly. "You're not a résumé or a list of awards or a perfect track record. You’re a man who’s saved lives—hundreds, Eric. Hundreds. You are allowed one bad day."

He shook his head, some bitter part of him still clinging to the anger because it was easier than facing the fear beneath it.

"Tell that to the kid’s parents," he muttered.

You reached up, catching his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.

"I would," you said. "I would tell them that Eric Foreman is the reason their kid even had a chance. That he fought for him. That he cared when a lot of doctors would’ve written him off. That losing him is not proof of failure—it's proof that you cared enough for it to hurt this much."

For a long, shuddering moment, he just stared at you, the fight draining out of him in slow, aching waves. His shoulders sagged, the exhaustion finally catching up to him, and he let out a broken breath.

"I don't know how to let it go," he admitted, voice raw. "I keep seeing his face. His parents. I keep thinking about the moment I realized I'd missed it and it was already too late."

You moved onto the couch beside him, pulling him into your arms. He was stiff at first—Foreman never liked vulnerability, never liked feeling small or weak—but after a moment, he gave in, letting you cradle him against your chest. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, holding on tightly.

"You don’t have to let it go right now," you whispered against his temple. "You’re allowed to mourn him. You’re allowed to be angry and broken and sad. I'll carry it with you, Eric. You don’t have to do this alone."

His breath hitched sharply against your neck, and you realized he was crying—silent, shuddering sobs that he tried desperately to contain. You rocked him gently, running your hands up and down his back, whispering soft, meaningless reassurances. Just being there. Just being solid when everything else felt like it was slipping through his fingers.

It was a long time before he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I feel like if I start crying, I'll never stop."

You kissed the top of his head, your heart aching for him.

"Then cry until you’re empty," you murmured. "I’m not going anywhere."

He clung to you tighter, burying his face against your shoulder. You stayed like that for what felt like hours, the storm inside him finally breaking, finally letting go. The steady patter of rain against the windows was the only soundtrack to the moment he allowed himself to fall apart.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red and raw, but lighter somehow, as if shedding the grief had let in the first breaths of air after drowning.

"I’m sorry," he rasped, wiping his face with the sleeve of his scrubs.

"Don’t be," you said fiercely. "You don't ever have to apologize for being human with me."

He exhaled a shaky laugh, resting his forehead against yours.

"You’re too good to me," he whispered.

You smiled, thumbing gently at the line of his jaw.

"You’re worth it," you said. "All of you, you don’t have to hide from me."

Foreman closed his eyes, letting the words sink in, letting himself believe them. When he opened them again, something softer flickered behind the exhaustion. A tentative hope.

He leaned in, kissing you deeply, desperately. You kissed him back just as fiercely, holding him together with every beat of your heart.

And when you finally pulled back, you pulled him into the bed, tucking him against you, feeling the way his breathing slowly evened out, the way he finally, finally let himself rest.

Eric Foreman, the man who always stood tall and proud, allowed himself—for tonight, at least—to fall apart in your arms. And you stayed, fierce and unwavering, holding his broken pieces together until he could find the strength to carry them again.

The Weight of Her Kindness

You heard the door open before you saw her. The soft click of it shutting echoed unnaturally loud in the quiet house. Allison’s footsteps were light—too light—and you knew before she even rounded the corner into the living room that something was wrong.

She stood there, framed by the dim hallway light, her scrubs wrinkled from the long shift, her hair pulled messily into a ponytail that had started to come undone. In one hand she held her hospital bag, which she dropped with a muted thud by the door.

You didn’t say anything. You simply opened your arms.

It was all it took.

Cameron crossed the room in three quick strides and collapsed into you, folding herself into your embrace like a woman too exhausted to keep standing on her own. You wrapped your arms around her tightly, feeling the slight tremble in her shoulders, the way she buried her face into your chest and clung.

For a long time, there was only the sound of her breathing—sharp and uneven, like she was fighting against the dam of emotions straining inside her.

When she finally spoke, her voice was cracked and hoarse.

"I lost someone today."

You didn’t move, just tightened your hold on her, letting her talk at her own pace.

"It wasn't supposed to happen," she whispered. "He was supposed to get better. We found the diagnosis in time. We started the treatment. He..." Her voice broke. She pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at you, her beautiful eyes swimming with unshed tears. "He was smiling yesterday."

You brushed a stray hair from her face, heart breaking with every word.

"He was smiling," she repeated, voice sharpening with the raw edge of grief, "and today he’s gone. And I keep thinking, what if I missed something? What if I pushed for a treatment that wasn’t right? What if—" She bit down hard on the words, as if punishing herself even for speaking them.

You cupped her face in your hands, gently forcing her to meet your gaze.

"Allison," you said softly, "you didn’t fail him. You gave him hope. You gave him care. You gave him a fighting chance."

Her lip quivered. She looked so small in that moment, stripped of all her usual quiet strength, her compassion turned inward into a weapon against herself.

"I feel like..." She closed her eyes tightly, a tear slipping down her cheek. "I feel like I make it worse. Like I make it harder when they go because I let them believe they’d be okay. Because I believed it, too."

You pulled her closer again, resting your forehead against hers, your breath mingling.

"You believe because you care," you murmured. "And even if it hurts—especially because it hurts—it means you gave them something real. Something beautiful. Not false hope. Human hope."

She let out a soft, broken sob and clutched at you, her hands fisting in your shirt. You held her through it, murmuring little things you weren’t even sure she heard—just soft words, grounding touches.

When the worst of it passed, she sagged against you, utterly spent. You guided her gently to the couch, pulling a blanket around the both of you, keeping her tucked into your side.

"You always have to be the strong one, don’t you?" you said quietly, stroking your fingers up and down her arm. "For everyone else. But not with me. You don't have to hide when you're hurting."

Her fingers found yours under the blanket and laced together, her grip tight, as if she was still anchoring herself to you.

"I just..." she started, voice small. "I want to save them all. Even though I know I can't. I know it's not possible. But it still feels like... if I were just better—"

"No," you said firmly, tipping her chin up so she couldn’t look away. "Don’t even finish that thought. You are more than good enough. You're the best thing that ever walked into that hospital. Your heart—your beautiful, infuriating heart—is what makes you extraordinary. Not just as a doctor. As a person."

Tears welled again, but this time she didn't try to fight them. She let them fall, safe in the knowledge that she didn’t have to pretend here, not with you.

You kissed her forehead, then her temple, then the salty trail of tears on her cheek, each kiss a silent vow that you would be here, as long as she needed you, as long as she let you.

"You don't have to fix everything," you whispered. "You just have to be you. That’s enough. That's more than enough."

Her arms slid around your waist, holding you tightly, her breath warming the curve of your neck.

"You always know what to say," she whispered back, her voice thick with emotion.

"Only because I love you," you murmured, kissing the crown of her head. "And because I know you."

A small, shaky laugh escaped her—half-sob, half-relief—and she burrowed closer. You welcomed it, welcoming every vulnerable piece of her, every trembling inch.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," she admitted quietly, voice raw.

"You’ll never have to find out," you promised against her skin. "I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever."

Hours later, after the tears had dried and the world outside had faded into unimportant darkness, you felt her breathing even out, her body finally relaxing completely in your arms.

You stayed awake a little longer, holding her, memorizing the weight of her against you, the fierce tenderness you felt, the soft beat of her heart.

You stayed because you knew, tomorrow, she’d wake up, put herself back together, and go out into the world to heal people again, even if it broke her a little every time.

And you would be there, always, to catch her when she needed somewhere safe to fall.

Fractures Beneath the Smile

You heard the front door click open and shut again—softly, almost guiltily—and set down your book, waiting. Chase’s keys clattered a little too hard into the ceramic bowl by the door. His shoes scuffed along the hallway with none of their usual casual grace. You didn't call out. You knew him too well.

When he finally appeared in the living room, he looked like a ghost of himself. His tie was hanging loose around his neck, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, hair tousled like he'd raked his hands through it a hundred times. His face was drawn tight, his eyes glassy, and one glance was enough to know tonight was bad. Really bad.

He hovered awkwardly by the arm of the couch for a second like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to sit down, then sank into it without waiting for permission. You tucked your legs under you, angling your body toward him. Still, you didn’t push.

The silence stretched thin between you before he finally rasped out, "Lost a patient today."

You nodded gently, inviting him to continue.

"It wasn’t—it wasn’t even complicated," he said, voice brittle with the beginnings of self-loathing. "Routine surgery. Standard complications. Textbook management. I did everything by the book." His laugh cracked in the middle, ugly and pained. "And he still died."

You reached over and took his hand, grounding him with your touch. His fingers twitched but didn’t pull away.

"I keep thinking," he said, staring at your joined hands like they were foreign, "what if I missed something? What if there was a sign and I didn't see it because I was—" His jaw tightened, frustration radiating off him in waves. "Because I was cocky, or distracted, or just not good enough."

"Robert—" you began, but he shook his head fiercely, needing to expel all of it first.

"I keep telling myself this happens. It’s part of the job. House would say it's a numbers game. Wilson would hand me some wine and tell me to grieve and move on." His mouth twisted, half-smile, half-grimace. "Foreman would tell me to get over it, that it’s not about me."

He lifted his eyes to you, pleading in their openness, raw with guilt and something deeper, more desperate.

"But what if it is about me?" he said, voice cracking under the weight of it. "What if it’s always been about me screwing up?"

You shifted closer until your knees touched, wrapping both hands around his.

"Robert, you didn’t kill him," you said, your voice quiet but firm. "You did everything right. Sometimes… it just isn’t enough. Sometimes the worst happens anyway."

He made a soft, broken sound—half-sob, half-sigh—and bent forward, pressing his forehead against the back of your hand. You stroked his hair gently, threading your fingers through the soft blond strands.

"You carry so much," you murmured, brushing your lips against his temple. "You hide it so well. All the pain, all the self-doubt. You think you have to bear it alone because that's what you were taught. But you don't have to, not with me."

He let out another shuddering breath, his body trembling under your hands. When he spoke again, his voice was almost childlike, stripped of all its usual charm and bravado.

"I'm so tired," he whispered. "I'm tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt. Of acting like I'm the guy who always bounces back, who doesn’t care. I care. I always care, and it never feels like it’s enough."

Your heart splintered at the naked vulnerability in his voice. You slid onto the couch beside him fully, pulling him into your arms. For a moment he resisted, stiff and tense, but then something inside him cracked fully open and he folded against you, clutching at your sides with desperate hands.

You ran your hands up and down his back, feeling the tremors working their way out of him.

"You don’t have to pretend with me," you said against his hair. "You can be tired. You can fall apart. I’ll still be here."

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. It felt like holding someone trying to piece himself back together with trembling, bloody fingers.

"I keep thinking if I'm just better, smarter, stronger—if I just try harder—it'll stop hurting," he said, voice muffled.

You pressed a kiss to his hair, lingering there.

"It won't," you said gently. "Because you’re human. And because you have a heart bigger than you want anyone to see. It’s not a weakness, Robert. It’s the best part of you."

Slowly, so slowly, he began to relax in your arms. His breathing evened out a little, his hands still clutching at you but less desperately now, like he trusted you to hold him through the wreckage.

When he finally pulled back enough to look at you, his eyes were swollen but clear, a fragile sort of clarity replacing the storm you’d seen earlier.

"I don’t deserve you," he said, half-laughing through the roughness of his voice.

"You deserve so much more than you think," you said seriously, framing his face in your hands. "You deserve someone who sees every broken, bruised, beautiful part of you and chooses you anyway. And I do. I always will."

He closed his eyes, swallowing thickly, and leaned into your touch like a man starved for something he hadn’t even dared to hope for.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t like the easy, teasing kisses he usually gave. It was raw and aching, a silent thank you carved into the shape of his lips. You kissed him back just as fiercely, cradling his face, pouring everything you had into him.

When you finally pulled back, you drew him down with you onto the couch, wrapping yourself around him until he was cocooned in your warmth. He let out a long, shuddering sigh against your chest, his hand resting over your heart like he needed to feel it beating. Proof you were real. Proof he wasn’t alone.

You stayed like that long into the night, whispering soft reassurances whenever the tremors came back, stroking his hair when the grief and guilt threatened to claw their way out again.

And when he finally drifted into sleep, exhausted and clinging to you like a lifeline, you held him even tighter, vowing silently to catch him every single time he fell.

[queerfables]

'Wilson' as an episode fucking slaps. I'm obsessed with Wilson's complete lack of boundaries and I'm obsessed with the way he acts out to express resentment while still being completely incapable of saying no. He gave a patient part of his liver!! The man is in no way hinged.

For all the emphasis that gets placed on Wilson's failed marriages and infidelity, we don't ever actually see it directly on screen. This is a narrative choice I love, for the record. We see Wilson's relationships through House's eyes and it allows us to understand Wilson as a deeply flawed person without ever making him unlikable, because Wilson's flaws and contradictions are what make him irresistible to House. It's so effective, the way these failed relationships say so much about Wilson's character while being constructed largely out of inference.

In this episode, though, we watch his inability to self advocate play out in real time, and I guarantee that this is what every one of his relationship meltdowns looked like from the inside. On some deep fundamental level, James Wilson doesn't believe "I don't want to" is a valid reason not to do something. You know the fantasy trope of an obedience curse, where the victim is inescapably compelled to obey other people's requests? Wilson casts that spell on his own damn self, and he'll hold true to it even to the point of violating his own bodily autonomy. When you lack boundaries like that, it becomes almost impossible to even know what you truly want, let alone to act on it. So Wilson says yes and yes and yes until it breaks him, and then he still can't say no.

When saying yes feels like surrendering to torture and saying no feels like committing murder, the only option left is escape. So Wilson goes out drinking to trash the liver he's going to donate. He gets dinner with the pretty nurse instead of going home to his wife. All of it is him scrabbling at the bars of his cage. And the irony is that the cage is unlocked, he just has to walk through the open door, and that's the last thing he could ever bring himself to do.

I'm pretty sure that when he went to Cuddy and told her his plan to donate, he wanted her to say no. She almost did! And I think she should have, because her first impulse was right, it is insane. Unfortunately this is the Insane Lack of Boundaries Hospital, and she can't actually be expected to guess when her employee's mouth is saying yes but his eyes are saying dear god no. By the rules of universe that House MD operates within, this doesn't even break a 7 on the "unhinged measures to save a patient" scale, and Wilson invoked the power of friendship. What was she supposed to do?

And through all of this, House is the person Wilson lashes out at. I love, love, love that House is the person Wilson lashes out at. Wilson can't even admit to himself that he's angry about the position he's in. How can he be angry when he's the reason the patient needs a new liver? But House sees right to the heart of everything going on with him, and he says all the things Wilson wants to be true and can't afford to believe. Because if he lets himself believe this wasn't his fault then he might not be able to say yes. And he's going to say yes. And he hates that he's going to say yes. And he hates that House knows he's going to say yes.

So he gets angry with House, because it's safe to get angry with House. He lashes out, because with House, he can. He tells House he's wrong about him, and demands House move out, and that's not at all what he really wants but he feels helpless and coerced and he desperately needs to exercise some kind of control over his own life. The fact that he can let go like this with House is in part about knowing House isn't ever going to leave him - the closeness of their relationship is always defined by what Wilson wants, House has never once pushed Wilson away and fights to reconcile when Wilson wants distance. But it's also about knowing that he can't hurt House by setting boundaries with him. Mostly this is because House will walk right over any boundaries he considers unacceptable, but in fairness, the fact that House is kind of a terrible person is part of his appeal. If Wilson had issues around other people violating his stated wishes, House would be the last person in the world that he should have anything to do with. But Wilson's issues lie in the fear that not being compulsively available and accommodating to everyone around him might permanently fuck up the life of someone he loves. House's fucked up life is never going to be Wilson's fault and even if it was House would still kind of deserve it, so Wilson's anxious people pleasing compulsion can chill the fuck out for five minutes at a time.

I don't want to idealise, there are times in their relationship when Wilson absolutely makes fucked up sacrifices for House. I don't think it's the case that he earnestly wanted to every time. But it's also true that House brings out authenticity in Wilson that few other people manage to. House knows him. House allows him to give in to his selfish impulses without guilt and consequences, and for all the people who love the best in him, House knows and loves his worst. While Wilson is caught up in trying to bend himself into whatever shape someone else needs him to be, what House wants more than anything is the truth. For Wilson, who is so out of touch with his own desires, being an object of fascination to someone obsessed with drives and motivations must be a rush. And if we accept the throughline of this episode, it might just be the case that House's boundary pushing and obsession is something Wilson needs.

[defectivevillain]

underestimated

pairing: House/Reader (no explicit romance)

reader is referred to with they/them pronouns. otherwise, race is ambiguous and no physical descriptors are used.

word count: 1.6k | ao3 version

author's notes: I have no idea what I'm doing when it comes to this fandom. I've never watched the series—I've only watched Trixie and Katya watch it.

But I have a weakness for arrogant savant doctors who are given a swift reality check when they experience a career-threatening disability. Cough cough, Stephen Strange. Cough cough, Lawrence Gordon.

We knew this was going to happen eventually. I've outrun my fate for long enough.

Enjoy!

“I’d like to speak with another doctor. One with more experience. Who’s your supervisor?”

Everything around you seems to grind to a halt, as you stare at your patient’s father in disbelief. You went through years of schooling; participated in extensive specialized training; and incurred an ungodly amount of student debt to finally earn your reputation as a doctor… All for someone to disrespect you in a single breath? You stare at the man for a long moment, swearing you can hear your ears ringing as you process just what he had the audacity to say to you. 

Due to your relatively young age, you’ve been forced to grow accustomed to skeptical looks and backhanded remarks. You’ve been confused for a nurse more times than you can count, despite the undeniable fact that you wear a doctor’s coat instead of scrubs. There have been many times when you felt as if you were being subtly judged, but never has someone had the gall to blatantly disrespect you like this. 

Realizing you’ve been stewing in silence for longer than socially appropriate, you mutter an excuse to leave before departing from the room. You grit your teeth and try not to notice how quickly your heart is racing in your chest. You’re so concentrated on the frustration brewing in your chest that you aren’t watching where you’re going, and you accidentally bump shoulders with someone. 

“Hey, watch it, speedster.” Broken from your thoughts, you look over to find Dr. House staring at you in mild amusement. You feel an ugly emotion stewing in your chest at the thought of what you need to request of him. 

“My patient needs you,” you manage to choke out. There are a plethora of negative emotions running through you now: anger, shame, frustration, disbelief. You’ve been underestimated before, but never so overtly. It feels like a slap to the face. 

House lets out a loud sigh. “What have I told you?” he says, shaking his head in annoyance. “Everyone needs me. They’ll have to get in line.” He waves flippantly with his free hand. 

“No, I mean—” you choke off, struggling to keep your composure. You take a slow breath, pretending not to notice how the doctor’s gaze intensifies in its scrutiny. “His parents asked for my supervisor.”

House stares at you for several long moments, studying your face as if looking for any traces of dishonesty. When he doesn’t find anything, he frowns. “They did?”

You nod. Your fists clench at your sides as you struggle to fight off your distress. This shouldn’t be bothering you as much as it is. You shouldn’t care what anyone has to say about you—least of all, two complete strangers. That recognition does nothing to rid you of your spiraling thoughts, however. “They wanted to speak to someone with more experience,” you remember to say. Your voice sounds a bit hollow, but you can’t tell if you’re imagining that. 

Dr. House stares at you for several seconds. “Ordinarily I’d say I’m much too busy,” he reasons, leaning on his cane as a speculative expression passes across his face. “But, would you look at that? My schedule has suddenly cleared up.”

There’s a vindictive glimmer in his eyes now and you quickly try to backtrack. “House, it’s fine. I’ll go get Dr. Cuddy or something-” You suggest, suddenly a bit nervous. 

Dr. House interjects before you can make any more excuses. “What room is your patient assigned to?” he questions, not even bothering to acknowledge your weak justifications. 

“213,” you respond. 

“Excellent,” he says, his eyes already set on the end of the corridor. House has already made up his mind—it’s too late for you to object. You’re forced to watch regretfully as he heads down the hall towards your patient. You can only hope you haven’t just made a big mistake.

Dr. Gregory House enjoys having a staff that isn’t entirely useless. He never would’ve described them so positively before—but maybe you have something to do with that. Ever since House hired you, he’s been a little less annoyed at work. It’s hard for most people to notice, but Cuddy and Wilson are particularly perceptive in that regard. He has learned to ignore their jabs and inquiries, despite knowing the facts of the matter. 

You were the only one of the newer employees who didn’t undergo House’s rather extensive examination and hiring process. In actuality, you had attended the first day of the “examinations”—but you had approached him at the end of the day with the intent to drop out of the process. 

House still remembers the humble confidence you wielded in that moment—the certainty in your eyes as you met his gaze and asserted your self-worth. It stunned him for a moment, truthfully, before he found himself weirdly impressed. When he asked for further elaboration, your points were quick and concise: you felt as if a standard interview process would be a suitable portrayal of your abilities; and you asserted you weren’t going to fight to change someone’s perceptions of you. 

Intrigued, House interrogated you about your background: where your residency was located, what specialties you were interested in, and what kind of position you were looking for. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but you essentially tricked him into a genuine interview—without him even realizing it. Of course, you couldn’t have predicted that you would capture his attention. Even so, he found your strategy both clever and well-executed. 

It wasn’t until Dr. Cuddy entered the room nearly forty minutes later, wondering what was taking House so long, that he was truly convinced. House saw you slowly begin to retreat as Cuddy spoke to him, as if you were about ready to slip out of the room and leave the building for good. House didn’t want that to happen—didn’t want your talent to go to waste. That was how he found himself with a new doctor on his staff: one both competent and, even better, unassuming. You didn’t try too hard to be social with him, evidently recognizing that he had no desire for friendship. Maybe that was why he felt drawn to you. 

And perhaps that’s why he’s angry at the thought of your abilities being doubted. House knows you well enough to recognize that you make very few mistakes. There’s no doubt that the parents of your patient underestimated you because of your age. You’re relatively young for a doctor—if House remembers correctly, you were able to graduate from undergraduate schooling early and earn a dual degree. Even so, you’re infuriatingly competent. And the thought of you facing unfounded suspicion is enough to send him down the hall and into the patient’s room with renewed vigor. 

He knocks on the door harshly and practically throws it open, setting his eyes on the parents who created this whole mess. “You’re going to wish you hadn’t said anything,” he says in lieu of a greeting, closing the door behind him with a bit more force than necessary. “You had the ray of sunshine; I’m the dark clouds. Or the torrential downpour. Whatever fits.”

“Sorry?” the mother asks in confusion. 

“Right, let me put it in layman’s terms,” House continues, tapping his cane impatiently. “I’m a bastard. An asshole, even,” he states plainly. 

“This doesn’t seem—” the patient’s father tries to say, glancing at his young son. 

“Appropriate?” House interjects. “Yet you thought it appropriate to harass my helpless staff and demand another, more experienced doctor. So here I am. Dr. House, Head of the Diagnostics Department. No need to bow.”

The parents are stunned silent. Satisfied, House continues. “I made sure to fact-check the good doctor’s work—an unnecessary precaution, because it’s all in order.” The parents have the self-awareness to look embarrassed at that. House muses on what he reviewed with you only moments ago. You hadn’t said anything even mildly accusatory, of course; House isn’t so kind, however. He looks the parents in the eyes. “Your son’s illness is entirely your fault. You didn’t get him vaccinated, probably because you fell prey to some bullshit fear-mongering. Now, you feel guilty about it… You lashed out at the doctor, who can actually do something to help your son… It all checks out.” He nods. 

Both of the patient’s parents seem lost for words. House decides to take advantage of their momentary silence. “Now, you have two choices,” he drawls. “If you have anything resembling a brain in that head of yours, you’ll apologize to the doctor and I’ll approve the script they recommended.” 

The parents are quick to catch onto what he’s implying. “Is that a threat?” the father asks disbelievingly. 

He’s tired of this conversation already. It takes a concerted effort for him to focus on the matter at hand. “Now I’ll be taking my leave,” House announces, no longer bothering to hide his irritation. “The doctor will return in a few minutes. If you can behave, then your son will stop whining.” He pauses in the doorway for a moment, before turning to look at them once more. “And keep it down. Your voice is grating enough to give a deaf person a headache.”  

Dr. House finds you no more than five minutes later, an unreadable expression on his face. “They’ve been euthanized,” House states with unwavering certainty as he approaches you. Before you can wonder just what the hell that means, he’s already continuing down the hall. You stare after him with mixed feelings, before turning back around and heading to Room 213. 

When you return, you find that the parents are completely different people now. They apologize to you for their rude behavior and promise not to make harmful assumptions in the future; satisfied with their apology, you continue with treatment as planned. As you’re writing a prescription for the patient, you can’t quite stop the smile that’s rising on your lips at the thought of House defending you—even in his own twisted, antagonistic, patronizing way. 

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[henley-reeves]

The same expression. Genuine utter fear. In both moments House is terrified because he is losing something that means everything to him. In the first case, it's his mind and sanity. And in the second, it's Cuddy.

[404-its-alr]

Waiting

Radiating star: ☆James Wilson x G!reader☆

Warnings: This is taking place, Season 7 Episode 8 "Small Sacrifices". There are some references to Season 4 Episode 15 “House’s Head” and Season 6. Clearly spoilers are in this, so please watch the episodes leading up to it.  If you're fine with spoilers, then continue reading! I am going to be swapping scenes from the episode into my writing just so it fits. The age limit here is 21, you have to be legal to drink, but I have no set age. Chase has an Australian accent and I tried using a website to help put the accent in here but I don’t like it, so if you would kindly read his words with his accent, thank you! 

⭐️𝓔𝓷𝓳𝓸𝔂 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰, 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓼!⭐️

Genre: Hurt/no comfort; unrequited feelings; oneshot

1.6k words

Summary: You attend the Chairman of the Board wedding with your co-workers. For the longest time you have been pinning over the head of the oncology department: James Wilson. Unfortunately, you've never found the right time to say anything. However, this night changed for the worse.

The wedding reception is packed with tons of people as you enter. As you scan the room, you recognize a small number of faces. The rest are blurred faces you’ll forget by the end of the night. As you make your way through the waves of people, you see everyone you know. Glancing towards the dance floor, there is Taub and his wife. His wife, Rachel, seems to be enjoying herself as seen by her dancing. On the other hand, Taub is not dancing at all, awkward but not surprising, considering everything going on between them. Your eyes follow along the dance floor and stop upon Cuddy and House. They are talking while dancing with one another. Her face reflects how the tone of it is, clearly it’s not going well. You decided to move along and away from the dance floor, not much of a dancer anyway. You peel your eyes away, taking time to glance towards the bar area. There, you spot the two singles. You make your way towards them, greeting them both.

“Hey guys, how’s it going?” You stand on the left of Foreman with Chase being on his right side, noticing drinks in their hands already.

“I am trying to get Foreman here to come with me to pick up some hot chicks by the chocolate fountain.” Chase responds. 

Foreman adds on “He was just upstairs with some other girl, weren’t you?”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t have happened if not for you buddy!” He says, smiling and giving a pat on Foremans shoulder. You let out a small laugh and shake your head at his words and at Foreman's scrunched eyebrows expression confused if not concerned for his “buddy”.

“I think you need this Foreman, allow Chase to be your wingman for the night instead. He is clearly great at getting ladies to go with him.” You encourage him, as you're trying to wave the bartender down for a drink.

“I didn’t come here to get laid” He rebuttals with. Chase assures him with “Then don’t. Talking to beautiful women isn’t nearly as fun as watching Taub not talking to his wife.” He takes a sip from his drink as he begins walking away from the bar. 

“I think you should still go. Like he said, it is better than waiting for the inevitable to happen. You know you want to.” You say as you sip your drink you manage to order while he and Chase were talking. “What is the worst that can happen?” He stays silent for a moment. His face tells he’s considering the decision. He then nods, making his choice known. You wish him luck as he walked in the same direction Chase went.

You sigh to yourself, you’re alone with a drink in hand, you take in the atmosphere, still darting your eyes from different sections of the place, hoping you spot him. You glance back at the dance floor, only to catch Rachel walking away from Taub, so you glance away and flicker your eyes towards the chocolate fountain where the boys are. A few minutes pass, and you see Foreman heading back your way. 

As he approached the bar again, he asked, “Do you know what a “bra” is?” You smile at his question, your furrow brows in confusion, your head slightly tilting to the side.

“Clothing or something else? Because I believe you know what the clothing is. What are you doing back here?” You respond jokingly. Foreman catches the bartender's attention and orders some drinks.

“The drinks are on the bra. That is what Chase called me and referred to me as his boss in front of the two women.” He informs you about the conversation he had at the fountain. 

You decide to take another look towards the dance floor and see no one there, so you scan the surrounding area and see Taub walking away from his wife this time. As you look the other way, you notice Cuddy walking away from House. As you turn back to Forman, you notice a certain tipsy Australian walking out of the reception with two ladies under each of his arms who distinctly look like the women from the fountain. You softly nudge Foreman with your elbow, catching his attention and nod your head in the direction of Chase. You mutter an apology and decide to leave him alone for a bit.

You walk around a bit more, still hanging around the dance floor. Watching the newlyweds slow dance and just past them, you finally see him. James, you noticed his girlfriend or his ex-wife, who is now his girlfriend, both watching the newlyweds as well. They’re talking, and so you just wait for the right moment to talk to them.

You know that they have been dating for a while now, you’ve liked James since your second year of working at the hospital, however you found out that he was in his third marriage so you squashed your feelings at the time. Thanks to your old coworker Cameron, who kept you in the loop, Wilson had gotten a divorce, and then your feelings started to resurface. You wanted to wait for a bit before deciding to ask out a freshly divorced man. You would bring him little things to cheer him up, such as coffee, or a new sandwich since House was always stealing his food. You would compliment his ties or his outfit, you embarrassingly complimented his lab coat, so you just made up an excuse and left.

You tried to ask him out before, many, many times before, there was always something blocking you from success. Such as House finding out, work getting in the way, not following through, and just House in general. Him finding out would be your worst nightmare. You would not be able to live it down. The day you were going to actually ask him out was the day you found out he started dating Amber. They called her “manipulated bitch” or at least House did, before she was kicked from applying to be on House’s diagnostic team. You never had a vendetta on any of the women who Wilson was dating. You encouraged the relationship, no matter how much it hurt, you went about your life, knowing you lost your chance but still held on to hope. Hoping that you’d at least tell him how you feel with a rejection at the end of the conversation. Dreaming that maybe he would feel the same. After Amber passed you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him, you knew your feelings could wait a bit longer, until he was doing better. You still helped him as much as you could without being overbearing. Sending simply morning texts, checking in on him in his office every other day or simply sending a text to check in. You made sure to spread out what you did and left him to grieve.

After House was released from the psychiatric hospital, he stayed with Wilson. After a while, they moved from Amber’s old apartment into a loft that Cuddy wanted. Some time had passed, and you needed to talk to someone about how you were feeling and clear your head. Coincidentally, the hospital was on lockdown, everyone was instructed to stay where they were, you were in the break room, so focused as much as you could on your work. After the lockdown, you went to chat with Thirteen and tell her everything. As much as you don’t like to admit it, she became your substitute for Cameron. Thirteen then has this apologetic look on her face and tells you what she and Wilson talked about in the cafeteria. He was trying to reconnect with his freshly divorced ex-wife, Sam, her encouragement about telling him to call her, and apologized. You told her not to worry about it, she had no idea and that you would like it, if nobody knew.

In present times, Thirteen had left the team, and either she didn’t tell or the guys were great at hiding their opinions about this. Although, you really do believe that she took it to the grave, and for that, you're eternally grateful.

You notice James starting to stand up. You slowly make your way over. You stop completely once you see him moving his chair a bit behind him. It is as if the world is moving very slowly, as you watch him drop to one knee, talking to her as he pulls out a ring box from his pocket, opening it for Sam to see. A beautiful ring is shown, her face lighting up instantly, smiling widely. The way he looks at her as he holds the box towards her with hopeful eyes. Wishing it was you he looked at that way. You turn your face away, trying to concentrate on anything else in the room.

You can not help but feel your heart pounding out of your chest, your feet grown extremely cold, your body completely frigid by the scene you witnessed. Sweating hands tightly gripping the glass, the tightening of your throat, short breaths inhaled and exhaled, glossy faces of people passing by you. Feeling the weight of everything crashing down, the hurt you could no longer endure. Realization settling in that you could never be with James Wilson. It clearly has been proved time and time again. 

You admit defeat, you quickly make your way towards any exit, head slightly down, leaving the glass anywhere, you did not care, you needed to get away from the place. You waited too long for something that was never there.

Thank you to @sister-lucifer for the House M.D. divider and another thank you to @enchanthings-a for the star dividers!

Here is a short piece of the Australian writing translation I didn't want to use: "Oy am troyin t' geh' foremahn heah t' come weeth me t' peeck up some hawt cheecks boy the chocolyte fountine." That is supposed to be a translation of "I am trying to get Foreman here to come with me to pick up some hot chicks by the chocolate fountain". I couldn't do that. Season 5 through 7 have been killing me, I had to write this, I love Wilson, only to see he still can't hold a relationship.

Want a drabble of Wilson? Send in an ask! A scene you want [before season 7] or a place at random - please read the rules to request!

⭐️Likes, comments, and reblogs are welcome, my stars⭐️

[yfere]

House MD's Stellar Wardrobe

I wrote this pretty much solely for @i-exist-solely-for-fandom, who has sucked me into watching the show again for the 10th, 12th, time! Shame on you!

Anyway! House MD in general excels with making characters feel real and distinct in all sorts of small, nuanced ways, but today let's talk about Clothes and what an amazing vehicle they are for characterization in this show -- how House MD as a show cares about clothing as a vehicle for personal expression more than most shows of its kind. Keep in mind that I am not by any means a fashion expert and a fashion expert would probably give you a much better and deeper analysis

The Big Three

1. House

I mean, this one is the most obvious one, but he is The Most Striking Example, intentionally so, of characterization communicated through wardrobe. The way he chooses to dress and the message it sends to others is the *first* subject of conversation he has in the show. He is literally introduced in the pilot as the doctor who refuses to wear a lab coat (like a doctor is supposed to) because he doesn't want to look like a doctor, the one with a cane that makes people mistake him for a patient, who is both combative towards authority and nonconforming in dress -- the perpetual scruff, the wild hair, the sneakers, either straight up t shirts or casual (un)buttoned shirts with the most tragically chewed-up collars and never-been-ironed wrinkles you have ever seen. He is disheveled, fairly irreverent in style, and what small nods he makes to business dress with slacks or an open suit jacket he is liable to withdraw at any time. It's not that he doesn't know how to clean up -- watch him on a date night or a charity event and he's as sharp as anyone could ask for -- but he prioritizes his own comfort and fun, and more importantly, is overtly contemptuous of authority markers in fashion. He wants to embody the janitor medical expert he met in Japan, he wants his being Right to supersede everything that would make him otherwise offputting or looked down upon. So he straddles the line between the sort of punk rock casual wear he favors and business casual, endures pleading from Wilson to please for the love of [Medicine] wear a tie to court, negotiates with Cuddy over fundraising dress, engages in epic power struggles with Vogler over the lab coat. And so on.

2. Wilson

Wilson, naturally, designed as he is to be House's odd couple counterpart, is fastidious, careful, and conventional in his appearance. He blow dries and styles his hair, uses a dry cleaner, wears his lab coat, tie, and a collection of basically decent but also fairly unimaginative shirts and slacks*. He's not actually very knowledgeable about fashion writ large (House can identify shoe brands, Wilson can only vaguely tell the difference between looking "nice" and not, and his version of dressing up is just wearing a different color shirt or tie) nor does he have a Style in the way that Foreman (the most couture character) does. In short, his wardrobe is very much lacking in personal investment and personality, as he tends to disinterestedly wear Standard Professional Attire. He's not stiff, though -- he is the only character whose natural state is with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, which besides his own personal comfort has the effect of making him seem warm, approachable, and down-to-earth. (and he is warm and approachable!) He keeps and can be more than once found wearing his McGill sweatshirt, which communicates his inclination to sentimentality as a character. He holds on to his university sweatshirt, he holds on to the toys and artifacts of all of his patients, he holds on to the little artifacts that Amber leaves behind. He self-flagellates by not wearing a coat. That's the kind of person he is, and it's indelibly also part of what he wears.

*a few of his ties are quite nice, but his failure to be nice consistently makes me doubt his ability to appreciate the bigger picture, frankly

3. Cuddy

The person who inspired me to start pontificating about wardrobe! Cuddy has her own brand of transgressive style, with a wardrobe that is an interesting meditation on her relationship with wielding power and authority. House makes fun of her for it excessively, but it is a fact that Cuddy does frequently delight in wearing the sexiest clothing possible, within the negotiable boundaries of professionalism. It's tasteful, confident, and very intentional -- this is a woman who through grit, tenacity and cleverness succeeded as the first and only female Dean of Medicine, the one holding the reputation of Princeton Plainsboro and House's leash in her hands. She's there to play fast and loose with the rules when she needs to, is confident and authoritative, and has nary a visible chink in her armor -- and all of this is bound up in and communicated through her dress. Her outfits say, "Don't worry, I'm not a stickler," at the same time they demand you take her seriously or fear for your life. Far be it from her to hide femininity -- rather, she revels in it, takes pride in her body, will happily wield attractiveness or discomfort like a cudgel, like any other tool. Who she is and what she looks like is everyone else's problem, to accept or reject (or, as they should, appreciate) -- she's just out having a ball with it. I imagine that this attitude towards fashion is one of the reasons she and House hit it off so well, though she is notably more flexible than House and will comfortably lean on both sides of the scale as the situation requires.

This is already quite long without me getting into any of the fellows, but I could!!! I definitely could

[alilixx]

Can we get jealous cuddy 👀

Of course! I'm so sorry for being late. I had some things to deal with in real life, and I didn't have any ideas for a fanfic. OKAY SO IM SO SORRY FOR BEING LATE I NEEDED TO SEE A DOCTOR, hope you will like it tho ! <3

You had always appreciated working under Lisa Cuddy’s leadership. She was not only an excellent doctor but also a respected manager and a woman you admired immensely. However, lately, the atmosphere between the two of you seemed strange, although you couldn't quite pinpoint the exact cause.

It all started when Stacey, House’s ex-girlfriend, returned to the hospital. You found in her an ally and a friend in dealing with the issue known as "House." Your interactions were light and pleasant, and soon, you began spending more and more time together, having lunch or chatting about everything and nothing in between consultations. Cuddy, on the other hand, seemed distant, more reserved with you. Sometimes, you noticed her gaze—not angry, but... troubled.

One day, while you were talking with Chase in the break room, you noticed Lisa watching you from a distance. There was something in her gaze, a spark you had never seen before. When Chase slipped away after advising you to go talk to her, you hesitated before approaching her. Nothing could go wrong, right?

"Lisa, is everything okay?"

She looked up from her papers, her expression perfectly controlled.

"Yes, everything is fine," she replied in a neutral tone. "Why do you ask?"

You felt a pang in your heart, uncertain of the truth in her response. "It’s just that... I feel like something is bothering you."

Cuddy had sighed lightly, lifting her eyes to meet yours. "Maybe you should focus a little less on Stacey and a little more on your work," she said with a hint of irritation.

Of course, this hurt you. You had studied so hard to work here, and even here, you fought to keep your mental health in the best shape. You were doing good work; it was rare for you to have problems with patients or nurses.

Her remark took your breath away. Was she... jealous? You almost protested, but the words got stuck in your throat. Without saying another word, you left the room, heart heavy. Afterward, you began to distance yourself from Stacey, hoping it would calm the situation. And indeed, things became more relaxed between you and Lisa. At least, that’s what you thought.

You continued with your usual routine, often talking to Chase or Cameron when the two were a couple. They were so different, making them good advisors. Stacey watched you with a hint of sadness as you only spoke to her briefly, but you couldn’t afford to get on your boss’s bad side; work was more important than just a colleague.

Shortly after Stacey’s departure, you grew closer to Eric Foreman, a competent and intelligent colleague with whom you enjoyed exchanging ideas. Once again, you noticed that Lisa seemed upset whenever you talked to him, especially outside of a professional setting. That day, she even swept through the room in a hurry, deliberately avoiding you.

This routine of avoidance had lasted for several months, and your friends outside of work (excluding Chase and Cameron, of course) had noticed that you weren’t doing well.

Not knowing what else to do, and exhausted by this silent tension, you decided to take a few days off. Maybe some space would help you see things more clearly.

Three days into your "sick leave," there was a knock at your door. You opened it to find Lisa Cuddy standing in front of you, looking nervous and a bit lost.

"Lisa..." you murmured, surprised.

She took a deep breath, as if searching for the right words. "I... I came to apologize. I think... I haven’t been fair to you. I let my feelings get the better of me."

You felt your heart race. "Your feelings?"

Cuddy nodded, her gaze locking onto yours. "I think I’m jealous, but not just because of Stacey or Foreman. I’m jealous because... you mean a lot to me. More than I was willing to admit to myself, so please, give me a chance. I don’t even know if you’re attracted to women or to me, but Y/N, please."

The words hung between you, heavy with meaning and promise. You gently took her hand, the uncertainty giving way to clarity.

"You mean a lot to me too, Lisa," you murmured, looking her in the eyes. "I’ll give you a chance, but let’s do this right."

Lisa nodded, a slight smile forming on her lips. Without another word, you gently pulled her inside your apartment, closing the door behind you. She didn’t resist, allowing herself to be guided by your gesture, as if she had been waiting for this moment for a long time.

The atmosphere between you two had changed. The next day at noon, Lisa suggested going out for lunch together at a little restaurant she particularly liked. You agreed, delighted to spend a more intimate moment with her, away from the hospital corridors and prying eyes.

The restaurant was charming, with solid wood tables and lit candles creating a warm ambiance. Sitting face to face, you shared a delicious meal, filled with laughter and deep conversations. Lisa seemed more relaxed, her smile constant and her eyes shining with that sparkle you loved so much.

"I’m glad we had that conversation," she confided, absentmindedly playing with her glass. "I don’t want any more misunderstandings between us."

"Me neither," you replied sincerely. "I really care about you, Lisa, and I want this to work between us."

The afternoon continued in the same gentle and close atmosphere. You strolled through the streets of the city, visiting a few shops, sharing memories, and laughing about everything and nothing. Time flew by, and soon, the day began to fade, giving way to the first light of dusk.

In the evening, back at your place, you decided to cook together. It was a simple idea, but it seemed perfect to end this special day. In the kitchen, the atmosphere was light and relaxed. You chose to prepare an Italian dish, a recipe that Lisa loved.

She took care of the pasta while you made the sauce. Your movements were synchronized, and from time to time, your hands brushed against each other, triggering knowing smiles. At one point, Lisa accidentally spilled some sauce on your apron, and you both burst out laughing.

"I think you're better in an operating room than in the kitchen," you teased. Lisa laughed, shaking her head. "You’re not wrong. Good thing you’re here to fix my mistakes."

The kitchen filled with the tantalizing smell of the meal, but also with something more intangible: the warmth and growing affection between the two of you. Once dinner was ready, you set the table, lighting a few candles to create an even more intimate atmosphere.

The meal you shared was simple but delicious, and most importantly, it was a perfect reflection of your day: a mutual discovery, full of warmth and affection. After eating, you tidied up the kitchen together before settling on the couch with a glass of wine.

"Thank you for today," Lisa murmured, resting her head on your shoulder. "It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this good."

You placed a kiss on her forehead, feeling exactly the same way. "We should do this more often," you replied softly, savoring the moment, determined to make this relationship something beautiful and lasting.

No words or movements were made for a long while. The silence settled in, not awkward, but comforting. You realized the sensation you felt at that moment—a gentle, enveloping warmth, the desire to stay there, simply, with her.

Your hands were intertwined, and you could feel the light pressure of her fingers against yours. Lisa kept her head on your shoulder, her breathing steady and calm. You stayed there, your lips meeting in soft, slow kisses, filled with this newfound tenderness. Nothing else mattered at that moment but her presence by your side.

You’d be lying if you said this relationship didn’t scare you. There were doubts, uncertainties. What if you ended up losing her? What if all of this was just a fleeting dream, destined to crumble over time? The very thought of losing this connection that had just begun to form made your head spin.

But at the same time, the temptation to be with her, to see how far this story could go, was stronger than anything. Deep down, you knew you wanted to be by her side, no matter the risks. This relationship, as frightening as it might be, represented something precious—a chance to love and be loved like never before.

And if this chance also meant the possibility of spending your life with her, then you were ready to seize it, to face any fears that might arise along the way. After all, love was worth a few risks, especially if it was to be with her, Lisa Cuddy.

You would have never known or even imagined that Cuddy was into switching roles. You had no doubt she liked to give, but to receive? Especially the way she asked if you could take control in bed this time. Of course, you accepted; this woman deserved everything.

It was the same time you came home from work later than she did, which was rare, but who would have expected to find her in the bedroom, lying on the bed, moaning your name with a "mommy" right after? You hadn’t made a sound, thinking she was asleep, but seeing her with a vibrator inside her, calling out your name, left you breathless. This vision of Lisa was one of the most arousing possible. When she saw you, she suddenly stopped, leaving only the sound of the vibrator, and you moved toward her, holding the toy in place.

Instantly, Lisa felt all her muscles tense at once. Something started vibrating inside her—literally vibrating deep within her—pressed against her folds, just behind her clit, against that perfect spot that made her pussy tight and warm.

You leaned down and gave her a kiss on the temple to reassure her in addition to your words which simply told her that she was a good girl for you, you managed to have the desired effect, seeing her tense up against the sheets in below her.

You wanted to push her over the edge with the biggest orgasm she had ever had in order to reassure her and make her understand that you loved being dominant. Along with your tongue on her breasts, it begins to swell strangely, filling her, vibrating and pulsing against her hot, slick folds in a way that is entirely pleasurable for Lisa.

The dean can't help but gasp, closing her eyes and unable to form coherent words. “I think that’s enough baby,” you whisper softly.

Slowly the new toy inside her pussy decreased in size and slowed its vibrations. It feels like a shrinking knot, then a love egg, then it's too small to feel descriptively. Lisa can always tell there's something inside her, but it's the smallest, most harmless of intrusions.

You could see her move her hips against the mattress so she could feel the toy again but nothing happened, she looked at you as you blocked her hands from her pussy. “No sweetheart, you won’t touch yourself if I don’t tell you.”

Lisa moaned in annoyance, she had wanted this for so long into this day and her girlfriend wouldn't even make her come. After a few seconds of pure torture, you turned the toy back on. The toy was going so deep inside Lisa that tears were streaming down her cheeks. The vibrations are so powerful you could hear them - whirring, pulsing, mechanically rumbling like a revving engine. You lowered Lisa slowly, gently, bringing her away from the cliff edge of a fast, hard orgasm.

The only "Please" she said to you made your heart ache but she couldn't cum now, you wouldn't allow her again. You choose a low, gentle vibration setting – enough so that Lisa can feel it bringing on her orgasm, but not enough to push her over the edge. "If you're still a good girl by the time I finish my paperwork for my patients, we can go over things."

The minutes passed and you were finishing the last papers while Lisa was moaning, you stayed in the room to see if she respected the conditions in order to reward her properly. She hadn't done anything except beg you. Did she deserve it? Of course but you were going to have to tease her again, if she asked you to stop you would and she knew it but she hadn't used the word yet.

You sat on the edge of the bed calling to her, she stood between your legs. You had to hold his hips from the way her legs were shaking. "My good girl, you tried so hard not to come. I think you deserve a reward don't you? Mommy will let you come on her thigh but you have to do the work when she tells you to come, you can. "

Lisa nodded and she sat on your thigh and rubbed against it, moaning. The friction and the toy inside her felt so good and she was trying hard not to come, when you saw the tears on her cheeks again, you turned the toy up all the way and came to take her breasts in your mouth in turn and she comes on your leg.

The orgasm was so long, you hoped you hadn't gone too far but when you noticed the smile on her face after slowly going down the pace of the toy. She comes to give you a quick kiss and thank you. Wasn't it perfect?

[all-pacas]

working title: foreman ruins everything

set during big baby aka the dean cameron era we deserved. rated soft r for camchase making out

-

Cuddy had promised not to leave Cameron with more work than she could handle, and she hadn’t — but even so, by Wednesday Cameron had a whole new appreciation for her boss’s typical workload.

She’s taking something of a break, sorting through a folder of hospital policies and procedures on Cuddy’s computer, when there’s a knock on the glass exterior door. Chase lets himself in. “Foreman’s gonna get his license revoked,” he announces with some amusement.

“What? What’s he doing?” Cameron asks, eyes narrowed, immediately thinking bone marrow or irradiation and almost as immediately reminding herself she’s being unfair, but Chase doesn’t answer right away: he stops short on his approach to the desk, tilting his head appraisingly. “What?” she asks again.

He grins. “Nothing.”

“Nothing.” Cameron locks the computer and leans back in her — Cuddy’s — chair, feeling suddenly self-conscious, like she’s been caught playing dress up: she’s been at this a couple days now, but this is the first time she’s spoken to Chase in the office, at Cuddy’s desk, like she really is just pretending. “So what’s this about Foreman?” she asks again, but Chase is clearly no longer interested.

“You look good,” he says appraisingly.

Now Cameron recognizes his distraction for what it is, and promptly forgets entirely about Foreman. “I’ve been doing this for three days,” she reminds him. “You were there this morning when I got dressed.” But she’s trying not to smile.

“True,” he says agreeably. “Different seeing you behind the desk, though. Very professional. I like it.”

“Yeah?” She leans back intentionally, crossing her arms and one leg over the other with a soft swish of hosiery. Her closet is half full of professional wear she hasn’t had cause to wear since switching to the ER, but Cameron had gone shopping last weekend all the same, feeling silly, playing pretend. But that’s not always a bad thing…

The doors of Cuddy’s office are glass, screened only from the lobby by a small anteroom meant for an assistant: anyone passing could look in, could stop and stare. This sends a thrill through Cameron, imagining what they might see: at this moment, Cameron at her desk and Chase standing opposite, but her mind is suddenly awash with possibility.

“So what was it you came here to discuss, Doctor Chase?” she asks formally, and Chase grins broadly before trying to look appropriately serious.

“An HR issue,” he says, unable to hide his smile, boyish and dimpled. He leans further over the desk, angled slightly: from the outside, they might be examining a file together, hard at work and professional. “It’s really serious,” he adds, a terrible actor: “I had to tell my boss right away.”

If she sat up a little, Cameron could kiss him: instead she leans further away. “You did the right thing,” she says gravely, biting her lip to keep her own expression relatively sober. “What’s the problem?”

“I have a crush on someone I work with,” he says, instead of the pick-up line Cameron has been bracing herself for. “I want to ask her out, only…”

“Workplace romances are a bad idea,” she can’t help but tease, echoing his own recent words: Chase narrows his eyes, not hiding his amusement. “You shouldn’t risk your career.”

“You’re really bad at this,” he admonishes, breaking character.

“Shut up,” she says, pushing herself up out of Cuddy’s chair, reaching across the desk: she clutches the thin cloth of his scrub shirt and pulls him towards her, his hands bracing on the table top as she kisses him.

Chase pulls away after a second, and Cameron only reluctantly relinquishes her hold on him. “You’re incredibly hot,” he murmurs, not nearly the compliment he probably assumes, but his tone is awestruck enough that she feels a squirm of heat anyway.

“So the boss thing does it for you?” she teases, coming around to his side of the desk.

“Absolutely,” he says blithely, and either he’s forgotten about the glass or he’s more turned on than she’d suspected. Cameron imagines the passersby, wonders if anyone is watching them. Acting Dean and her top employee. Imagines him on his knees, imagines someone seeing her on her knees…

“I can give you a performance review,” she says, and he makes an eager sound as she reaches up to kiss him again, his hands falling naturally on her waist. He’s a good kisser, always has been, eager to follow her lead, do as he’s told, from that first time so long ago to two nights ago: smells of chemical hospital soap and her bodywash he poaches from the shower and himself, most of all, chemicals and endorphins and the way evolution has programmed her to think he smells good, can’t get enough of him even two years on, even after the novelty should have worn off — they make out like teenagers and she lets him pin her against Cuddy’s desk, his back to the door, but anyone walking by would still know, and it isn’t that Cameron wants to be caught (especially now, proving herself in this new job), but the thought of it —

Two years and the novelty should have worn off but it hasn’t, he is careful to not muss her clothes too badly, try for buttons or doing more than slipping the tips of his fingers under the hem of her pencil skirt, but she has no such problem with the thin cloth of his scrubs, the tee-shirt he has on underneath. Imagining his banal earlier scenario — I have a crush on my boss, imagining him as her subordinate, desperate to please, to do anything she wants, his mouth at her neck and her fingers at his hips, she brushes against his pager: young doctor, eager to make amends for a mistake any way he can…

“You said something about Foreman earlier,” she says hazily, remembering.

“Are you serious?” Chase is affronted as he pulls away, his cheeks and ears flushed.

“You said he was going to get his license revoked,” she recalls, hating herself for killing the mood like this, but now that Cameron’s thinking about it it’s like a dash of cold water: they’re in public, she’s temporary Dean, Foreman’s a friend… (she very briefly is struck by the fantasy of Foreman begging his boss to… no. No, she’ll think about that again later, if at all.)

“There is nothing in the universe I am less interested in than Foreman right now,” he grits out, then immediately relents: “He’s screwing with Thirteen’s drug trial. Or he’s thinking about it. ”

“What?” She’d assumed it was something patient related, Foreman’s usual lack of bedside manner —

“And it’s very sad. Can we…” Chase gestures towards the attached bathroom, evidently having remembered the glass doors.

No, Cameron wants to say, struck with outrage and the urge to track Foreman down and tell him off. Report him — no, she can’t do that. She won’t do that. But there must be something she can do to head this off at the pass, to…

She has nothing.

“What did you tell him?”

Chase groans, running his hands back through his hair in a gesture of pure frustration. “To not be an idiot.”

“Good advice,” Cameron says distractedly, smoothing out her skirt. She hasn’t really been paying attention to Foreman’s drug trial, or for that matter Foreman and Thirteen’s relationship: maybe she should have been. Maybe Cuddy has some information on it; she doesn’t have full access to Cuddy’s files, but in the parts she does…

“Yeah, I do that from time to time. This isn’t happening anymore, is it?” Chase says glumly, sinking into one of the chairs in front of Cuddy’s desk.

Cameron winces apologetically as she logs into the computer. “I love you,” she says by way of apology, pulling up a database of clinical trials.

Chase sighs. “Right. Love you too,” he mutters. “I hope Foreman loses his damned job.”

[animnightmare]

Somtimes House feels like poorly written fanfiction.

"Thats a shame. You wouldve made a great mother." House states plainly. Cuddy turns around, betrayal in her eyes "You son of a bitch" her eyes glisten with tears and anger, words sharp despite her defeated body language. "When I was getting a baby, you told me id suck as a mother" she accuses firmly, taking steps twords House, mere inches between them "Now that ive lost it, you tell me id be great as a mother. "Why do you need to negate everything!?" she finishes aggressively. House stares at her, expression blank, as close to remorseful or introspective as hes capable of. "I dont know." he admits quietly. Then they make out hot on the lips

[sherlockfanthings]

Still Here [Part 3]

House M.D. Fanfiction

Characters: Emma Wilson (OC), James Wilson, Gregory House, Lisa Cuddy, House’s Diagnostic Team (Cameron, Chase, Foreman)

Genre: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Recovery, Found Family

Warnings: Serious illness, medical emergencies, emotional distress, hospital setting, near-death experiences [Happy End]

Rating: T

Summary: Emma is hospitalized after her condition worsens. Wilson finds out and is devastated, but stays by her side. House and Cuddy ensure she gets the best care. Emma is scared, but supported. Tests begin, and for once, House shows quiet care. She’s no longer facing it alone.

The hallway lights seemed too bright.

Emma walked beside House in silence, her sneakers squeaking against the hospital floor. She felt like she was moving through molasses—every step too heavy, every breath too loud.

Her heart thundered in her ears.

People passed them. Nurses, residents, techs. She didn’t look at any of them. Couldn’t.

House, for once, didn’t speak. His usual rhythm of sarcastic commentary was gone. He walked slower than usual, not from his leg—but for her.

When they rounded the corner toward Oncology, Emma almost turned around. Her legs faltered. Her chest tightened.

Then she saw him.

Wilson.

He was halfway down the hallway already, walking fast—purposeful, almost anxious. His tie was slightly crooked, as it always was when something was bothering him. He hadn’t seen them yet.

He was looking for House.

Looking for answers.

And then his eyes found hers.

He stopped.

The moment their gazes met, everything in him shifted. She could see it—his face tightening, his shoulders tensing. He looked at her like something had just hit him in the gut.

She hadn’t realized until that moment just how visible the tears were on her cheeks.

“Emma?” His voice cracked slightly.

She wanted to speak. She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Wilson rushed toward her.

“What happened? Are you hurt? What’s—” He looked to House, then back to her, panic rising.

House gently, almost carefully, stepped between them. “Come on,” he said to Wilson. “Let’s talk in your office.”

Wilson’s office was silent.

Emma sat curled on the couch, knees tucked under her chin, hands clenched in her hoodie sleeves. Her eyes were rimmed red, her breathing shallow. She stared at a point on the wall, unmoving.

Wilson stood just inside the door, not taking his eyes off her.

House moved to the desk, resting both hands on the back of the chair before he spoke. “She didn’t want to tell you. Thought she could wait it out. Thought it’d go away.”

Wilson didn’t say anything. His gaze flickered to House—his expression unreadable—but his knuckles were white where they gripped the strap of his bag.

“We ran tests,” House continued. “Not because she asked. Because I pushed. She’s been hiding symptoms for over a week. Fatigue. Abdominal pain. Syncope. Tremors. We’ve ruled out infection. We’re looking at something systemic. Possibly autoimmune. Possibly worse.”

Wilson’s lips parted, but no words came.

House’s voice stayed steady—clinical, but not cold. “This isn’t just ‘keep an eye on it’ territory anymore. We need to run more tests. Imaging. Biopsies. We need to admit her.”

Wilson blinked slowly. “Admit—”

“She’s sick, Wilson.”

Silence fell like a hammer.

Emma curled tighter on the couch, her voice a whisper. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

Wilson turned to her, eyes wide, heart breaking. “Emma…”

“I thought if I just waited—if I was strong enough—it would go away,” she said, voice trembling. “And I didn’t want you to stop smiling again.”

Wilson’s face crumpled.

He crossed the room in two steps, kneeling in front of her, reaching out gently—not like she was fragile, but like she was everything. His hands found hers, wrapped around them tight.

“I don’t care if I never smile again,” he said, voice thick. “You’re the only thing that matters. You hear me? You matter.”

Emma let out a broken sob and fell forward into his arms. He caught her instantly, wrapping himself around her like a shield.

“I’m sorry,” she cried.

“You don’t ever have to be sorry,” he whispered, his lips pressed to her hair. “Not for being scared. Not for being sick. I’ve got you, Em. I’ve always got you.”

Across the room, House turned away.

Not because he didn’t care.

But because he did.

House closed the office door behind him with a soft click. The quiet inside had grown too thick, too fragile—like glass stretched too thin. He needed to move. To do something.

To keep his hands busy while everything else threatened to fall apart.

He made his way through the corridors with more urgency than usual, his cane tapping sharp against the linoleum. Nurses glanced up at him. Some stepped aside instinctively. He barely noticed.

By the time he reached Cuddy’s office, he didn’t knock—just pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Cuddy looked up from her desk, immediately raising an eyebrow. “Unless you’re here to apologize for harassing my clinic staff—again—you’re not scheduled to barge in until tomorrow.”

House didn’t respond with a quip. He just closed the door behind him and leaned heavily on his cane.

Cuddy’s smile faded almost immediately. “House?”

“I need a room.”

She blinked. “You always need something—be more specific.”

“A good one,” he said. “Private. Quiet. View of something green, if possible.”

Her eyes narrowed. “For who?”

He hesitated.

Cuddy stood slowly, stepping around her desk, her expression sharpening. “Who is it?”

“It’s Emma,” House said, finally.

The silence that followed was thick. Almost unreal.

Cuddy’s breath caught.

“Emma Wilson?”

He nodded once.

Cuddy lowered herself into the chair across from him, visibly shaken. “Is she hurt?”

“No. Not exactly. But she’s sick.” His voice was steady, but it had that weight to it—the kind that told her he was only holding himself together by force.

Cuddy frowned. “How sick?”

“We’re not sure yet. Labs are off. She’s symptomatic—fatigue, syncope, pain. And she’s been hiding it. For days.”

“Jesus,” Cuddy breathed.

House looked at her, and for once, there was no trace of sarcasm, no mocking grin, no snide undertone. Just quiet urgency.

“I want her somewhere where Wilson can breathe. Where she can breathe. No constant alarms. No fluorescent light straight out of a morgue.”

Cuddy nodded slowly, already reaching for her tablet. “You’ll have it. I’ll make sure of it.”

“She’ll be admitted tonight.”

“Of course.”

There was another pause.

“I’ve known her since she was barely taller than my coffee machine,” Cuddy said quietly, more to herself than him. “Used to follow me around the clinic with a clipboard and a juice box.”

House said nothing, but something flickered in his expression—just for a second.

“I’ll talk to Pediatrics myself,” Cuddy added. “We’ll take care of her, House.”

He nodded once. Looked away.

And then, without another word, he turned and left.

Because what he felt…

That stayed with him.

The sun was beginning to set, casting soft golden light across Wilson’s office. The blinds filtered it into long stripes on the floor, catching in Emma’s hair as she sat curled up on the couch, clutching the sleeves of her hoodie like they were the only thing holding her together.

Wilson sat beside her. Not too close. Just close enough.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

Emma stared down at her knees, her voice barely above a whisper when it came. “I don’t want to be admitted.”

“I know,” Wilson said gently.

“I don’t want the IVs. Or the tests. Or the sterile blankets that smell like bleach and sadness.”

A soft smile touched the corner of his mouth. “They’ve upgraded. Now it’s bleach and plastic.”

Emma gave a shaky laugh, the kind that cracked halfway through. “You’re not funny.”

“You’re just a tougher audience these days.”

She leaned her head against the back of the couch, looking sideways at him. “Are you mad at me?”

Wilson’s heart broke a little at the question. “No. God, no.”

“You should be. I lied to you. I made House lie to you.”

“You were scared,” he said, reaching over to take her hand. “I’ve been scared, too. More times than I’d like to admit. It doesn’t make you weak, Em. It makes you human.”

Her fingers tightened around his.

“I didn’t want to ruin things,” she said. “Things were finally... good. You were happy. We had our rhythm.”

He nodded slowly. “And we still do. It’s just... changing tempo for a while.”

Emma looked down at their hands. “I hate hospitals.”

Wilson gave a soft snort. “You spend half your time sneaking into mine.”

“Only the fun parts,” she muttered. “Not the whole... being-a-patient part.”

A pause.

Then Wilson’s voice, low and steady: “We’re going to do this together. One day at a time. You’ll have me, House, the whole team... even Cuddy, if you’re unlucky.”

Emma smiled faintly, blinking back tears.

“I don’t feel brave.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “You just have to show up. That’s brave enough for me.”

She leaned into his side, and he wrapped an arm around her, holding her close. She fit against him the same way she always had—like she belonged there. Like nothing could ever touch her if he just held on tight enough.

“I packed an overnight bag last time you were in the ER,” he murmured. “Still in the closet.”

Emma sniffed. “You packed me pajamas?”

“Your favorites. The ones with the angry cartoon cats.”

She laughed, wetly. “I can’t believe you remembered those.”

“I’m your dad,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Remembering stupid things is my superpower.”

She stayed like that for a while, tucked beneath his chin, her eyes closed, her breath slowly evening out again.

Finally, quietly: “I’m ready.”

Wilson squeezed her hand.

“So am I.”

The hospital room was warmer than Emma expected.

Soft yellow light glowed from a corner lamp, casting long shadows against the pale blue walls. Someone—probably Cuddy, maybe even House—had made sure it wasn’t one of the sterile, windowless boxes that screamed you’re sick. This one had a view of the garden courtyard, a potted plant in the corner, and a chair that didn’t look like a medieval torture device.

Still, it was a hospital room. And she was the patient.

The thought sat heavy on her shoulders.

Wilson wheeled in a small suitcase and a canvas tote bag, both of which he placed carefully on the extra chair. He hadn’t stopped hovering since the elevator. Emma would’ve found it funny on any other day.

She stood by the bed for a moment, unsure. Then, wordlessly, she reached down and tugged off her sneakers, climbing up onto the mattress and curling her legs beneath her.

Wilson moved around the room with quiet efficiency, unpacking things like it was a hotel and not a place where her blood would be drawn a dozen times a day.

“Angry cat pajamas,” he announced, pulling them from the bag and holding them up. “Told you.”

Emma cracked a small smile. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m endearing.”

“That’s not what House says.”

“House is legally dead inside.”

She laughed—just once—but the sound helped. It reminded them both that they still had pieces of before to hold onto.

Wilson opened the bedside drawer and placed her headphones and a well-worn paperback inside. Then, from the tote bag, he pulled out a fuzzy gray blanket—her favorite—and spread it across the bed, smoothing the corners.

Emma watched him silently. “You don’t have to do all of this.”

He looked up. “I know. But I want to.”

She nodded, looking away as emotion tightened her throat.

After a few minutes, Wilson sat on the edge of the bed beside her. “You want to put your pajamas on? Or wait until later?”

Emma hesitated, then shrugged. “Later.”

“Okay.” He didn’t push.

Instead, he reached over and gently adjusted the thin hospital pillow behind her back, adding the one he’d brought from home. The one that smelled like laundry detergent and cinnamon—like safety.

She leaned into it instinctively.

Wilson stayed quiet for a moment. Then, softly: “I know this isn’t what you expected.”

Emma blinked, looking out the window where the sky was turning gold. “I didn’t want this to be real.”

“I know.” He paused. “But you’re not alone in it. Not for a second.”

She looked at him, eyes glassy. “You’ll stay tonight?”

“Of course I will.”

“I don’t want to fall asleep alone.”

“You won’t.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her, holding her close the way only a father can—steady, certain, a lighthouse in the middle of the storm.

And for just a little while, the hospital room didn’t feel like a place of fear.

The lights were dim now.

The monitors beside the bed hummed quietly, their soft glow reflecting off the walls. The sky outside had slipped into darkness, the garden below barely visible through the window.

Emma lay curled beneath her gray blanket, the angry cat pajamas just peeking out beneath the hospital gown she’d stubbornly layered underneath. Her breathing had finally steadied—slow, deep, the kind that meant her body was letting go, if only a little.

Wilson sat beside her bed, one hand resting lightly on her arm. He hadn’t moved in nearly an hour. His gaze never left her face.

He watched her chest rise and fall like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Only when her fingers twitched and then stilled did he let out a breath. Just one.

She was asleep.

Soft footsteps in the doorway broke the silence.

Wilson didn’t look up. “I knew you’d come.”

House stepped into the room, his cane silent against the floor. He said nothing at first, just stood at the foot of the bed, eyes fixed on Emma.

She looked so small like this. Smaller than he’d let himself notice before. Her face was pale against the pillow, her body curled like she was trying to protect herself from the world.

Something shifted in House’s expression. His brows lowered, not in suspicion or irritation—but something close to sorrow. His jaw tightened.

“She’s just a kid,” he murmured, more to himself than to Wilson.

Wilson finally looked at him. “Yeah.”

House’s eyes didn’t leave Emma. “She shouldn’t be here. In this bed. Hooked up to wires. Waiting to hear how bad it is.”

“No,” Wilson said. “She shouldn’t.”

There was a long silence between them. Comfortable, but weighted.

Then House, still quiet: “You’re holding it together better than I expected.”

Wilson gave a hollow laugh. “I’m not.”

He looked back down at his daughter, his voice lower now. “She’s everything to me, House. Every part of my life that’s ever felt right. And now I... I don’t know how to protect her.”

“You don’t,” House said. “You just stand beside her. That’s the only thing you can do.”

Wilson nodded slowly. His voice cracked. “She was scared to tell me. Thought I’d break.”

“She’s not wrong,” House said.

Wilson gave a bitter smile. “I am breaking.”

And there it was—laid bare in the dim light. The fear. The helplessness. The kind of love that doesn’t stop pain but makes it louder.

House stepped closer to the bed. For a long moment, he just looked at Emma again. His voice, when it came, was strange. Softer than Wilson had ever heard.

“She’s got fire,” he said. “She argued with me every step. Hid everything with that same Wilson-smile. Thought she could out-stubborn me.”

Wilson let out a quiet breath. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

House looked at him then. His voice dropped.

“She’s going to need you to be strong, you know.”

Wilson nodded.

“I will be.”

“I’ll help,” House said.

Wilson blinked, surprised.

“I mean, I’ll insult everyone who comes through the door,” House added quickly. “But I’ll be here.”

Wilson gave a small, genuine smile. “I know.”

The two men stood in silence for a while, side by side at the edge of the bed, watching over the girl who had made both of them softer without ever trying.

And in that silence, something unspoken passed between them—an understanding.

Whatever came next, they’d face it together.

The first thing Emma felt was the ache.

A deep, dragging pull in her gut, sharp around the edges and worse than the day before. It made her wince before her eyes even opened, her fingers instinctively curling into the blanket.

The second thing she felt was weight—heaviness in her limbs, like her body had been replaced overnight with something made of lead. Her mouth was dry. Her head was thick.

Still, when her lashes fluttered open and she looked toward the small sofa across the room, something warm stirred in her chest.

Her dad was there—half-sitting, half-slumped against the backrest, an open book resting facedown on his lap, his glasses crooked on his nose.

House sat beside him, looking absolutely miserable in a hospital chair that clearly wasn’t made for spinal columns like his. His chin was tilted toward his chest, but his eyes weren’t closed—he was awake. Watching.

And now he was watching her.

Emma gave a small smile, weak and wobbly, but real. “You two look like the saddest Christmas decorations I’ve ever seen.”

House raised a brow. “Says the girl in angry cat pajamas, a hospital gown, and two IV lines.”

Emma looked at the tubes in her arm, then back at him. “Fair.”

Wilson stirred at the sound of her voice, blinking himself awake in a heartbeat. The book in his lap tumbled to the floor, forgotten.

“Hey,” he said softly, standing and coming to her side. “Hey, sweetheart. How do you feel?”

Emma shifted slightly under the blanket. “Like someone shoved broken glass under my ribs.”

Wilson’s face fell, just a little. But he nodded. “Okay. That’s okay. We’ll get ahead of it. We’ll talk to Pain Management. We’re just getting started.”

She gave a faint nod, her smile fading.

House stood slowly with a soft grunt, grabbing his cane. “Good morning, Sleeping Not-So-Beautiful.”

Emma glanced up at him. “You didn’t go home.”

“You noticed. Congratulations, your brain still works.”

“She noticed both of us,” Wilson added with a soft smile, smoothing a strand of hair away from her forehead. “That has to count for something.”

House tilted his head. “Don’t encourage her.”

Emma chuckled—then winced at the pain in her side.

House’s gaze sharpened.

“We’re going to run more tests today,” he said, tone even. “But we’ll start simple. Blood draws. Urine panel. Cardiac enzymes. Imaging if needed, but non-invasive for now.”

Emma frowned. “No needles that feel like medieval torture?”

House smirked. “Only if you misbehave.”

Wilson gave her hand a squeeze. “We’ll be with you. For all of it.”

Emma nodded slowly, trying to summon more strength than she felt. “Okay.”

Then she glanced between them, eyes a little brighter despite everything. “Thank you. For staying.”

Wilson leaned down and pressed a kiss to her hair. “There’s nowhere else I’d be.”

House just gave a shrug. “Someone has to make sure the nurses don’t poison you.”

Emma closed her eyes again for a moment, exhaustion already dragging her back down—but this time, the ache was just a little easier to bear.

Because they were here.

And she wasn’t alone.

For once, House didn’t bark orders from the doorway.

He didn’t scribble a list of tests on the whiteboard and toss it at his team with a sarcastic “Figure it out.” He didn’t disappear into his office with a bag of chips and a puzzle book while the others did the work.

This time, House rolled up his sleeves.

Literally.

The phlebotomist had already been paged, but when she entered the room, she found House standing beside Emma’s bed, arms crossed, cane leaned carefully against the bedside table.

“I’ve got this,” he said shortly, reaching for the tray himself.

The nurse hesitated, blinking. “You want to draw the labs?”

House raised an eyebrow. “What part of ‘I’ve got this’ requires translation?”

She nodded and left without argument.

Wilson, who sat on the other side of the bed, didn’t say anything. He just watched.

Emma, pale and quiet beneath her blanket, offered a tired smile. “Did hell freeze over?”

House snapped on a pair of gloves. “Yes. And the devil sent me to collect a blood sample.”

“Do I at least get a lollipop?”

“Depends how many veins I miss.”

She laughed weakly, but held out her arm without protest.

House’s hands were steady—more than anyone would have guessed. He examined her arm with the focus of a surgeon, fingers pressing gently against the skin. No jokes. No commentary. Just precise, clinical calm.

“You’ve been drinking enough?” he asked softly.

Emma blinked. “I think so.”

He nodded once, then guided the needle in with practiced ease. The vials began to fill, one after the other.

Wilson watched him closely. It was strange—surreal even—to see House so quiet. So focused.

When the last vial was full, House pulled the needle with swift efficiency and placed gauze over the site, taping it down himself.

“Didn’t even flinch,” he muttered. “You might be tougher than your father.”

Emma grinned faintly. “That’s not hard.”

Wilson let out a breath that was almost a laugh.

House handed off the vials to a nurse with strict instructions on how to label and prioritize them. Then he reached for a small container and held it out.

“Bathroom’s just down the hall. Don’t drop it. Don’t confuse it with your orange juice.”

Emma smirked. “Gross.”

“Motivation.”

The imaging orders went out next—ultrasound first, followed by a scheduled CT if necessary. House scribbled on the request forms himself, his handwriting messy but unmistakable.

●●●

Back in Diagnostics, he set the bloodwork orders down in front of his team with a sharp clack.

“CBC, ESR, CRP, ANA, liver enzymes, renal panel, metabolic panel, thyroid. And screen for every autoimmune marker on the list. I want results within six hours.”

Foreman raised a brow. “Since when do you run labs personally?”

House looked up. His voice was low. “Since it mattered more than usual.”

No one asked what he meant.

Cameron met his eyes for just a second, then nodded.

“We’ll get started.”

[devotioncrater]

chase and cameron ceasing their sexual relationship because chase wants a romantic relationship while cameron doesn't. meanwhile house and wilson aren't together at all but house leads wilson on with Two Play Tickets and then throws the concept of it being a date back in wilson's face when wilson assumes that they're going to the play together. because hello hi why wouldn't wilson assume so? they already do everything together. house was never clear in their conversation about what he meant anyway, unlike cameron who was clear with chase from the start.

"the play, you interested?" "sure, you want me to pick you up?" then wilson is thrown from such great heights when house says he's not going because "it's a play. dudes only go to plays when they're dragged by women they're hoping to see naked" + he's only offering the tickets to wilson because maybe there's someone wilson wants to see naked. which oh boy is it a heteronormative/misogynistic way to see the world, but it allows us to implicitly read the subtext of the scene and what is actually being communicated. the dude picks the girl up on a date night to see a play, then the dude and the girl have sex later. wilson picks house up on a date night to see a play, then wilson and house have sex later.

but now that house is not going to the play, wilson loses interest ("so why are you giving them to me?") and only takes the tickets because 1) he's a pushover 2) there's a third party stranger witness so he can't say no/insist that they see it together or else That Would Be Gay aka not fit the heteronormative script house laid out and 3) he's a closeted homosexual theater/musical nerd ofc he wants to partake see it only with house

"maybe there's somebody you're hoping to see naked" house says using a gender neutral term. and in response wilson looks exasperated like he's keeping a frustration inside like his whole hurt "why don't you want to see it with me?" wasn't enough of a clue. amazing heterosexuality there dude bravo

and for this scene it's like wilson and house's roles are flipped. normally house is the one asking wilson out on dates (famously the romantic weekend getaway, where wilson rejected him). normally house gets dejected or loses interest in an activity if wilson doesn't want to partake and then has to find a substitute for wilson's place (famously the monster trucks, where cameron stood in for wilson). normally wilson does his job while house simply doesn't.

this role reversal is overtly reinforced by them entering an exam room with a patient in it instead of the usual empty room. it's the catalyst for wilson being thrown for a loop, because it defies every expectation wilson has of house. What Do You Mean You Aren't Hiding From Cuddy? What Do You Mean We Aren't Doing This Activity Together? What Do You Mean You Don't Want To Date Me?

like gauging from wilson's facial expressions and his quietly resigned "alright" as he takes the tickets, i'm of the firm belief that hey. wilson in that moment was open to the possibility of dating house. even only if for a night. like they might've had a consensual workplace relationship in s3 had they gone to that play together. which would've paralleled chase and cameron's plot lines (thank you to eric "house and wilson would have sex before you two do" foreman)

[oph3liatlou]

— WHY DO I CARE SO MUCH?

pairing(s) - comforting!lisa cuddly x sick!reader

word count - 1,194

warnings - full sarcasm, sexual innuendos, no implied gender for reader but probably male.

proofread? - no, i’m too tired from moving 😭

note from author - my nickname from my friends is literally ‘house’, can you tell? ;)

summary - when you don’t show up for work, your boss gets concerned.

You hadn’t shown up for work that day, nor had you called in sick. Cuddy, your boss - was furious, to the point that she had actually, shown up at your house. There was a knocking and, you opened it to see your bosses face fuming. “Do you just not show up to work now?”

You were clearly sick, but that didn’t stop the sarcasm coming out of your mouth. “Wow, you look nice this evening. Is that new makeup, titled ‘bitter rage’?”

Cuddy rolled her eyes, annoyed by your sarcasm but, ignoring it as she had other things to say. “You know, next time, you could actually call in - instead of making me drive all the way over here to check in on you.”

You were quick to retort, despite your brain fog from your cold. “But that would defeat the purpose of me annoying you.” You paused to sniffle. “It’s so cool, how I can do that when I’m not even at work!” You gasped.

Cuddy scoffed, looking you up and down from where she was standing. “You’re such a child.” She muttered before continuing. “I should’ve expected something like this from you - what if patients were counting on you to be there today?”

“Don’t worry - I told them to hold off on the dying part until I get back.” You nodded with a sarcastic smile.

Cuddy’s face scrunched up in annoyance as she rolled her eyes before stepping forward, and nudging her way into your house. You closed the door in response and turned to the couch. “You know your attitude towards work is why nobody likes working with you, right?”

You covered your nose to sneeze before responding, mocking her tone. “You say that like I care.”

“Why do you think you’re still single at your age?” She said, not caring how rude she sounded.

You made your way to your couch, grumbling. “You’re still single too,” You paused. “I just like strippers.”

Cuddy frowned, not impressed by your comment - but also not surprised. “At lease I haven’t been caught in another act with some sleazy chick, on one of the hospitals security cameras. Did you forget about that?” She teased.

You stood, heading towards the kitchen to find a bottle of cold medication and taking three. “No, I just wanted the tape for later.”

Cuddy was stunned for a few seconds, but managed to regain her composure. “The nerve of you - is everything sexual for you?” She asked, following you into the kitchen.

You put the bottle back in the drawer as you chuckled. “Yeah.” You paused for a moment, looking at her and furrowing your eyebrows. “Now, are you just here to add to my pre-existing headache?”

She looked at you with a straight face, before her eyebrows furrowed and she crossed her arms. She ignored your question. “One, you’re coming back to work tomorrow. And two - as your boss and, your friend - you should really be taking better care of yourself.” She said, as her voice and expression softened.

You stayed silent for a moment, sniffling from your cold - but still looking her up and down. You cleared your throat and ruined the moment. “I should…” You agreed. “Make me some soup then!” You shuffled past her, back to sitting on the couch and flipping through the TV stations.

Cuddy looked annoyed once again. This was more entertaining than the TV. “Really? Now Im supposed to take care of you?” Her arms were still crossed. “You know, if you got a girlfriend like you always say you want - she could take care of you when your sick…make you soup.”

Despite you being sick, you smirked at her from the couch. “No girlfriends ever made me soup.” You raised an eyebrow. “You wanna start?”

Cuddy groaned, clearly not wanting to start anything with you. However, she soon let out a loud sigh and started walking towards the kitchen. “You’re such a child.” She repeated before going into the kitchen.

You heard things being moved around as Cuddy prepares to make you some soup. You didn’t say a word, but your eyes followed her around the kitchen.

After several minutes of moving in the kitchen, Cuddy came back into the living room where you were. She placed the bowl of soup on the coffee table in front of you. “It’s chicken noodle - it’s also all you had.” She said, the first part being genuine.

You nodded at her and started eating the soup - too prideful to thank her now.

Cuddy frowned slightly at your lack of acknowledgment. “I don’t want to hear you whining and complaining about your cold once you’re back to work tomorrow.” She said, clearly not letting you get away with your attitude - even though you always did.

You glanced up at her as you swallowed your soup. “Why do you think I have you nursing me back to health?” You flirted - out of habit.

You saw Cuddy’s face turn a slight shade of pink but, she waited for a moment before speaking. “I feel like I’m the only one who can take care of you.” She said, her expression a mixture of concern and annoyance.

You nodded as she sat down next to you. “You’re right.” You started before pursing your lips. “Wilson’s a terrible girlfriend.” You joked, in full sarcasm.

Cuddy sighed while looking away from you and towards the TV. She was clearly irritated. “I’m trying to be serious here,” She sighed once more, this time looking at you. “Why do I care so much?”

You look at her and stay silent before standing and taking your bowl into the kitchen. “Thanks for the soup.” You settled, not answering her hypothetical question.

Cuddy watched as you walked away into the kitchen to clean your bowl. “Don’t mention it…” She mumbled under her breath - she knew how avoidant you were. As you came back, she checked her phone - someone from work needed to see her earlier in the morning then when she’d normally come in.

“Work?” You asked gently, sitting back on the couch. She stood as if she was about to leave.

“Unfortunately.” She responded, still looking at the messages on her phone. “I have back-to-back meetings tomorrow about some hospital funding.” She said before shaking her head. “I should get home.”

You scoffed for a moment. “Sounds boring.” You paused for a moment looking at her. “Just stay here, you’re closer to the hospital and you could probably get a few extra hours of sleep.”

Cuddy looked at you, surprised by the offer. “Are you sure?” She asked, thinking about it for a few seconds. “I don’t want to intrude.” Cuddy paused with an unsure expression. But, when she thought about it - your house was way closer to the hospital and she wouldn’t have to be up so early.

You shrugged as if her choice didn’t effect you. “Yeah, whatever. I’m going to bed myself.” You paused. “There’s blankets in the closet, if you’re staying.”

And you were already halfway down the hallway to your bedroom.