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bi-bard · 2 years

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And some things you just can't speak about - Robert Chase Imagine (House M.D)

Title: And some things you just can't speak about

Pairing: Robert Chase X Reader

Song Drawn: epiphany

Word Count: 704 words

Warning(s): death, illness

Summary: Don't get attached to a patient. It doesn't end well.

Author's Note: On today's edition of "Kyli Writing About Characters She Hates"

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I knew it was stupid.

I still couldn't figure out why I got so attached to this patient. It was out of character for me. I think everyone knew that.

I had done everything right.

Everything should've been fine.

And then it wasn't.

When they went into surgery, everything went completely wrong. It sent the surgeon into something close to a panic, which definitely didn't help anything.

I was up in the operating theatre when the patient flatlined.

"No," I muttered, stepping closer to the glass like I could somehow help.

I ran out as soon as they called the time of death.

I avoided the patient's family. I had promised that their loved one was in good hands and that we were going to do everything in our power to save them. It felt like I had lied to them. I didn't want to face that.

"(Y/n)."

I was curled up on the couch in the lounge-like room when Chase found me.

"Hey," he mumbled, walking over and sitting next to me. He wrapped an arm around me and let me lean against his shoulder. "Cameron is talking to the patient's family."

"I promised them," I muttered. He squeezed my arm a little bit. "Everything should've been fine."

"You couldn't have known that something was going to go wrong," he replied. "Your diagnosis was right. It's not your fault that something went wrong during surgery."

"It just hurts," I felt pathetic admitting it. "It hurts so much more than usual."

"You got close to a patient," he said. "It happens to all of us. Hell, it's even happened to House. Even though he won't admit if you asked him."

I chuckled a little through my tears.

"Look at me," Chase nudged me to sit up properly.

He went from hugging me to his side to holding the sides of my face and looking at me. He swiped his thumbs under my eyes before grinning softly.

"It hurts right now," he said. "I know that. But it will get better. You'll be able to work through this. I promise. If I can do it, you can. You've always been better than me."

"Don't say that," I muttered, rolling my eyes.

He grinned for a moment before leaning over and kissing my forehead.

I moved so I could lay my head on his shoulder again. His hand ran up and down my back.

"Wanna head home," he mumbled after a few minutes.

"I wanna go see the family," I replied. "I need to see them."

"Are you sure?"

I nodded before sitting up and wiping my eyes, "I'm sure."

Chase led me outside. He grabbed my hand for a moment as we went down the hall.

I pulled my hand away when I spotted the family down the hell. He stepped closer so he could whisper to me.

"I'm right here," he promised. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Thank you," I muttered.

Chase walked right behind me as we approached the family. I saw the anger in the patient's wife's eyes as soon as she spotted me.

"You told us he was gonna be alright," she hissed.

"We did everything we could," I replied sadly. "I... I just wanted to come and apologize for everything that happened. I can't imagine what you're going through but I just... I thought knowing that you had my support would help... I don't know. I'm just... I'm so, so sorry."

The wife's anger only subsided a little bit. She looked at me with tearful eyes, but dropped the glare. She grabbed her kid's hand and started walking away from me.

"Come on," Chase said after a minute. "Let's go home. Get a good night's sleep. Take a day off. Cuddy will understand-"

I cut Chase off when I hugged him quickly.

He hugged me back, rubbing his thumb in circles on my back.

"I love you," I muttered.

"Love you too," he kissed my head before stepping back and reaching a hand out to me. "Come on."

I grabbed his hand and grinned.

This job wasn't easy and it was never going to be. However, knowing that I wasn't on my own was going to make it a little easier.

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#dr robert chase imagine #fanfiction #imagine #x reader #robert chase fanfiction #robert chase imagine #house md x reader #house md imagine #house md fanfiction #robert chase x reader

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imzadi-caskett-huddy · 4 years

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House, M.D. Fanfic (8/?)

Thank you to everyone who has taken time to leave a note on my story. I hope you continue to enjoy my kind of rewrite and/or additions to certain episodes! As always, I don't own House. If I did, Lisa Edelstein would have gotten the respect she deserved contact wise for a season 8.

As stated in previous chapters, the story follows the big picture laid out on the show, but with my own take on things. This chapter starts with Cuddy's struggle to keep it a secret from House about his previous diagnosis being correct. I should say that I REALLY don't care much for early season 3 Wilson, and I'm going to do my best not to let that affect the storytelling. This chapter is longer... lots of story development to get through.

Thanks to @love-hope-faith-feels-like-a-lie on Tumblr for reading my ideas and providing positive feedback! Anything in the way of feedback is always appreciated! Enjoy!

xxxxx

She was definitely not comfortable lying to House about this. He deserved to know he was right. She didn't know why Wilson suddenly thought he needed to teach House a lesson on humility and make her a party to it. "I have to tell him. I see him every day. I..."

"Everybody lies."

Wilson's words echo through her head that night as her head lay on his shoulder, her fingers tracing lines across his chest. "You were right."

He turned his head slightly to see her better. "I'm right about a lot of things. You're going to have to be a little more specific."

She pushed up slightly on her elbow, the sheet sliding down her chest a bit. "Your patient. In the wheelchair," she started.

He smiled slowly. "You gave him the shot."

She sighed, dropping her head back to his shoulder. "I gave him the shot."

"Why?"

"Because I know you. Because you see things the rest of us don't see. Because as infuriating as it is, you're never wrong about the medicine."

He smiled smugly. "I was right."

"Yes," she sighed, rubbing her face. "You're always right. The man stood up from his wheelchair and hugged his son."

"You weren't going to tell me..."

She looked up at him then. "Wilson thought it was a bad idea..."

"Wilson would think this is a bad idea too. That mean you're going to stop sleeping with me to get pregnant?"

"No, of course not..."

"Then why are you suddenly listening to him?"

She was quiet a moment. "You like the high. The night you showed up outside my window with your diagnosis, you were higher than I've ever seen you on Vicodin. We just worry about you."

"And yet you told me anyway," he pointed out, shifting to get up and grab his boxer briefs. He needed to walk. He needed to think.

She made a grab for his shirt and slipped it on. There was an argument brewing. "You're an addict, House. You're always looking for a fix. If it's not Vicodin, it's a medical mystery that only you can solve. If you don't have the puzzle, you get your high in my bed. Its all just a fix for you."

"That's what you think this is? That's all you think you are? A fix because I don't use Vicodin anymore and you told me no at work?" He spun around to face her. The look in her eyes said it all... she did think that's all she was to him. "I'm going home," he started pulling on his clothes.

"House, that's not what I said..."

"You said enough. I got my 'fix.' Keep the shirt." He headed for the front door.

"House!" She called after him. But it was too late as she heard the front door slam. She sighed and for back into bed. She should have said something. She should have told him him she knew she wasn't just a fix...because she did know. This had been going on for months... it was way past just sleeping together to get a fix or to get pregnant.

Her hand moved over the place he'd occupied in her bed not even ten minutes before. How had this even spiraled out of control that quickly? Sliding closer to his pillow, she inhaled his scent. She could hear his bike engine revving as he tore down the street, and she knew sleep was not going to come easy now in her empty bed.

xxxxx

"How's the leg?" she asked cautiously as she opened his door. She wasn't going to push too much since they were at work, but she was trying to judge his mood. Especially since he hadn't bothered to tell her that his leg was starting to hurt again.

He looked up from his desk and saw her entering his office. "My leg is fine."

"You're limping. Cameron thinks it's because we lied to you. We both know that I already told you, so that's not it. Is it because we had a fight?"

"Your breasts are different," he studied her closely, completely ignoring her attempt to talk about him.

She continued unfazed. "Wilson thinks I haven't told you, and that I'm feeling guilty and want to coddle you."

He shook his head. "You're pregnant."

"I'm not pregnant. How badly does your leg hurt?"

"Your breasts are firmer. As someone who had intimate knowledge with the girls, I would know," he stated. "You're pregnant."

"It's called an underwire. Tell me about your damn leg." She was not going to let him deflect by turning the tables on her.

"My leg is fine."

"Let me do a scan on your brain. If the Ketamine is wearing off..."

"Let me do a pregnancy test." They each wanted to test the other. Fair was fair, after all.

"House, I'm not pregnant!" she dropped her voice at the end, not wanting that word to escape the walls of his office.

"You've been taking fertility drugs. You've been getting laid on a regular basis, without protection. Your breasts have enlarged. You're doing crazy things, because I can't think of any other reason why you would ever listen to Wilson about lying to me. You're pregnant."

"You're not always right, you know."

"Actually I am. You said so yourself. I'm never wrong about the medicine. But you and Wilson would just have me think I'm wrong. You'd rather have me doubt myself and lie to me about it than tell me the truth and prove I'm right," he said lowly, massaging his thigh.

"House, let me look at your leg."

"My leg is fine!" After a moment, he dropped his head slightly. "Don't you think if I thought the treatment wasn't working that I'd do something to try to fix it?"

She sighed softly. "If it gets worse, call me." She knew she wasn't getting anywhere with him then, so pushing further was futile. He was still pissed at her for not telling him he was right. She was pissed at herself for going against her better judgement on this and actually listening to Wilson.

xxxxx

He hated that he'd had to grab his cane. He hated that he had taken the pills. He hated that he was now standing on her front porch, leaning against his cane, knocking on her door.

"Tell me the truth. Are you pregnant?"

She wasn't surprised to see him, not really. Not after the way they left things. She was, however, surprised to see him with his cane. "Why do you keep insisting I'm pregnant?" She moved to let him in.

"Why do you keep insisting you're not?" He studied her. That had, afterall, been the purpose of them sleeping together to begin with. She had been very actively trying to get pregnant. So why was she now suddenly opposed to taking a pregnancy test to try to confirm it when he suspected it?

"You're walking with your cane. That means the Ketamine wore off." Now she was deflecting.

"Or it just means I need my next fix. That's what you and Wilson expect of me anyway, right? No puzzle to take my mind off it. Time to give sex a whirl."

She crossed her arms. "That's why you're here?"

"Why not? You have been so eager to welcome me into your bed. Figure I'll get high on endorphins from mind blowing sex and walk out of here without my cane," he said sarcastically. He caught the hurt look on her face at his comment and looked away.

"Call one of your hookers if you want mind blowing sex. I'm not in the mood," she turned to walk away.

"Hookers can do the distraction. They can't do the mind blowing sex. They don't do what you do..." He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. He'd crossed a line with that last insult, and he knew it. He'd tried to hurt her with it... knew just what button to push to get the desired reaction. "I took the Vicodin. My leg hurts," he admitted quietly.

She took a step closer then, resting a hand on his arm. "We can figure something out."

He shook his head. "Nope. Tried Ketamine. It didn't work. House the cripple is back for good," he told her simply. He'd gotten a beautiful glimpse into a pain free life, had allowed himself to hope, only to have it yanked away. "Probably for the best. I do my best work this way. Less likely to screw up diagnosing patients when I'm in pain. More likely to be an insensitive ass, but less likely to miss something and screw up the medicine."

"House..."

"Are. You. Pregnant?" his voice low, his eyes dark as he closed down any chance of continuing to talk about himself.

"No," she pulled her hand away and crossed her arms once more.

"Take a test?"

"No. It's not time y..."

"Then how do you know?" He interrupted her, moving closer.

"It's too early to..."

"Better to have another go then. Just to make sure it takes," he murmured lowly, pulling her against him in a kiss then. He was ready to lose himself in her and the way she could make him forget everything else.

At first she was going to push him away, but after a moment, her body melted against his, not bothering to stop him as he pushed her shirt up and over her head. He was in pain. He needed the distraction. Maybe she did too. Maybe she needed the high of sex with him even more than he did. Biting his lower lip as she deepened the kiss, she shoved him back against the wall hard.

He growled when his back hit the wall, his eyes darkening with lust, fingers digging into her skin as he pulled her roughly against him. His mouth moved to her neck, biting her pulse point hard and causing her to hiss, before soothing the spot with his tongue. She'd have to cover that with makeup tomorrow.

Her hands started pulling at his clothes as they worked their way to her bedroom. He closed the door with her body, pushing her back against it as his hands slid to her thighs and lifted her up, using the door to support the added weight so it didn't mess with his leg.

xxxxx

They finally both fell into her bed, breathless and in better moods. "Does that count as makeup sex? Or is that still angry sex?" He asked a moment later.

She lifted her head and couldn't help but smile slightly. "Shut up, House."

"I just need to know if I'm going to be expected to go another round for makeup sex, or if that was already covered..."

She grabbed her pillow from where it had landed on the floor earlier and smacked him lightly with it before shifting to get more comfortable in bed. "Shut up, House." But she did giggle softly to take the bite out of her words. She wasn't mad anymore. He didn't seem to be either. "Go to sleep."

#house #house m.d.#house md #house fanfic #house x cuddy #greg house #lisa cuddy #huddy

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actual-leia-organa · 6 years

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5 Times He Watched Her Sleep

Hey guys! I wrote another little something for the House fandom, a quick little 5 times fic. Special thanks go to @queenraynajaymes for making me commit to publishing something by the end of January, to @fruit-lupe for always agreeing to read my works whilst still in progress, and a shout out to @geekhappens for inspiring me with her amazing fic - you make me want to be a better writer.

I’ll also eventually be posting this on my FF.net account, but I also welcome feedback through tumblr!

Title: 5 Times He Watched Her Sleep Fandom: House, MD Summary: 5 times throughout their relationship that House has a chance to observe Cuddy asleep. Definite fluff and some AU.

First time -

His first thought on waking was that he’d never touched such soft skin in his life.

His second was that a ringing phone was possibly the worst sound to wake up to.

Groaning softly and disentangling himself from the gorgeous undergrad in his bed, he did his best to not wake her whilst making it to the phone before it stopped ringing.

“Hello?” he near whispered into the phone, watching as the lithe figure of Lisa Cuddy rolled over in his bed, burying her face into his pillow and sighing softly.

He was only half listening to the voice on the other end, throwing in the occasional “uh huh” and “yeah” as he observed her in sleep. Her cheeks were flushed a soft pink, her long lashes curled where her eyes were gently closed. Her lips were slightly parted, her breathing soft. Her wild curls were spread around her, and he’d be inclined to describe them as a halo- were he that way inclined.

Suddenly the voice on the other end of the line was demanding, requesting he confirm a meeting with the Dean in… 20 minutes. House swallowed, a heavy weight forming in his gut.

“Sure, sure, I can get there by then.” He shot another look at the girl in his bed, regretful he would have to leave her to wake alone.

Hanging up the phone, he wandering around his room, collecting his clothes from where they’d fallen - or been thrown - the night before, and dressing in silence.

Before he left he ran a hand through her hair, smiling as she leant into his touch. As he pressed a soft kiss to her temple, her eyes softly opened.

“Hey,” her voice was heavy with sleep.

“Hey yourself.” House shot a quick glance at his watch, “I have to go, I have a meeting, but you sleep in, ok? I’ll call you this afternoon”

Cuddy nodded, pressing her face back into his pillow as she slipped back into sleep.

Grabbing a post-it from her desk, House scribbled a quick note:

Cuddy-

I’ll call you, this afternoon.

- H

Second time -

He couldn’t sleep. The pain in his newly mangled leg was like an animal, one with razor sharp teeth and jaws of steel, with a bite he could never escape. The so called ‘experts’, his ‘doctors’, the same ones who dismissed his pain, who missed the dead muscle, who left him a cripple, had started him on Vicodin. It left his thoughts clear but the pain was still there, would always be there, would be with him the rest of his days.

Unlike Stacy.

The thought was like a punch to the gut, even though he knew he’d been the one to not ask for her help, who distanced himself, who pushed her away.

He tossed his head again, trying to find comfort where there was none. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement as Cuddy adjusted her blanket in her sleep, curled into the armchair Wilson had pushed into his bedroom to watch over him during the worst nights.

Cuddy. He couldn’t believe she had come to him, that she had helped him… that she had stayed. But there she was, curled into the old leather armchair, his afghan haphazardly thrown over her. She’d tied her unruly curls up, which made her look younger, and her eyelashes fluttered with REM sleep.

She’d cared for him all afternoon, coming into his darkened apartment and not letting his depression dampen her ferver. He’d been laid out on the couch, his crutches thrown across the room in a fit of frustration. She’d cleaned around him, doing his laundry and cooking enough food to last a week. She’d brought him the latest medical journals, even some case files, “if you feel up to it.”

She’d stayed for dinner, making sure he ate a decent amount, before offering to help him to bed. He was proud, too proud, but was also pleased when she stepped forward as he stumbled with the crutches. She walked with him to his room, brought him clean pajamas and stepped back, calmly waiting for him to ask for help when he needed. When he looked at her she stepped forward, letting him lean on her, helping him balance, all without a word.

As he pivoted around in bed, laying back against the cool fresh sheets, she pulled his comforter up and he grabbed her wrist, his pain-filled eyes meeting her cool grey gaze.

“Stay?” his voice was soft, and Cuddy nearly missed the word. He spoke as if ashamed to ask, as if afraid to need.

“Of course I’ll stay,” her smile was gentle, with no pity in her eyes. House thought it was such a change, her just being there, a comforting force, so different to Stacy’s fretting, to Wilson’s frenetic neediness. She was soft, and gentle, and she calmed him despite the pain.

He closed his eyes, but sleep didn’t come. Instead he watched as she curled herself into the chair and pulled the blanket close. One arm fell out towards the bed and he moved across to capture her hand in his. It felt so warm, so right. But he also knew she deserves more, so much more than an angry cripple, and so he was content to watch her slip into a deep peaceful sleep.

Third time -

It’s 3:10pm, and House is taken aback when he storms into Cuddy’s office to find her absent. He’d checked her schedule - both personal and professional - and he fully expected to find her behind her desk, ready to roll her eyes at the procedure he’d burst in to ask for.

A slight snore pulled him back to the present, and he turned to find her stretched out on her couch, head propped against one of the throw cushions. Her mouth was slightly open, and a glass of water sat on the floor beside her- odds are because she’d been feeling ill again.

He gently pushed her legs back and sat beside her, watching her steady breathing. A soft smile appeared as he thought about the past week, and what the future would bring.

She needed the nap, after catching what she wrote off as “just a bug”. House knew better. She hadn’t kept her breakfast down for the past 4 days, and this was the third time he’s caught her napping.

“There’s nothing wrong with you that hasn’t been wrong with women since the beginning of time” had been his cryptic comment a few days earlier, but she’d brushed it off as a House-ism, not seeing the deeper message.

Leaning forward, he brushed a strand of hair from her face, pulling back as she stirred. Her long lashes fluttered before her eyes opened, the striking grey muted from sleep.

“Hey” he softly said, “you feeling ok?”

Cuddy nodded, slowly sitting up, her back propped against the arm of the sofa. “Still just getting over this bug, I’ll be ok”

“Cuddy…”

“It’s just a bug House, people get them. Don’t look for more than this is.”

“Because this is more than a bug, Cuddy! This is… this is big.”

“House…”

“Cuddy” he mocked back at her, making her meet his eyes. “It’s ok to be nervous. It’s ok to be afraid. But don’t pretend this is something else.”

“What do you want me to say, House? That I’m scared to admit this to myself in case it's not true? That I’m afraid I’ll get my hopes up only to lose it again? That I don’t want to say those words, because it's everything I’ve ever wanted?” Her eyes filled with tears at the confession.

“It’s ok Cuddy” House held out his arm, and she curled against him. “I’m nervous, afraid, everything, too. But don’t deny this to yourself.”

His hand gently rubbing her back soothed her back to near sleep, and House released her from his embrace so she could lie back on the couch.

As he pulled himself to a stand and made his way from the office, her sleepy voice brought him to a halt.

“House…” he turned towards her as she half opened her eyes, a smile playing on her lips, “I think I’m pregnant.”

House smiled at her in return. “I think so too. Enjoy your rest, I’ll see you tonight.”

He limped out, being sure to close the blinds as he went.

Fourth time -

House limped in his front door, pushing the door shut with his cane and hoping the resulting noise didn’t disturb Cuddy - she’d said nothing about going back to his place, but her luxury sedan parked outside was a dead giveaway.

He didn’t expect her to still be awake, it was the early hours of the morning, he’d finally solved his case, and was looking forward to spooning behind her and hearing her contented sigh, which he realised as he made it to his bedroom was not going to happen.

Sprawled under the haphazard covers, Cuddy was curled around his pillow, wearing one of his older graphic tees with a hand protectively on her second trimester baby bump.

He sat beside her, smiling as he watched her sleep, softly laying a hand on her ever-expanding stomach and feeling the gentle pressure from within.

He had been afraid, bordering on terrified, when her pregnancy was confirmed.

Afraid that he’d be a terrible father, that he’d follow in his own father’s footsteps and never know how to properly discipline, that Cuddy would finally wake up and realise he was a terrible choice to have a baby with.

But more than anything he was terrified that something would happen to the baby, and Cuddy would again be devastated. She’d been through so much, this was her dream, a baby of her own… a baby with him. And he would move heaven and earth for her, and the baby, to make it through this pregnancy.

She started regularly sleeping at his apartment early in the pregnancy, holding him close when she woke from nightmares of losing the baby. It wasn’t until after the 12 week scan, the line crossed, the simple words “everything looks good” sounding like magic to their ears, that Cuddy relaxed her nighttime hold on him.

But she didn’t stop coming over, hence why he now found her taking up most of her bed, but he couldn't be mad at her. She was so happy, glowing even in sleep. Her hair was back, pulled into a braid, exposing the soft skin of her neck. House lent forward and gently kissed the pulse point near her ear, smiling as she let out a soft moan and turned to him. Her eyes slowly opened, grey meeting blue, as she moved to kiss him.

Pulling away, she took in his appearance. “Solved your case?”

“Yeah,” he pulled back and started to toe off his shoes and socks, “so it would be nice if I could squeeze in there with you and the spawn.”

Cuddy smirked at his choice of endearment, slowly rolling herself back over to her own side. Her smirk became a full smile at the idea of even having her own side in House’s bed.

By the time she’d managed to re-situate herself House had changed into his pajamas and was climbing in next to her, turning onto his side and pulling Cuddy against him.

Pressing a kiss to her hair he heard the gentle sigh that meant she was slipping back into sleep, and he pulled her closer as her breathing slowed and she finally relaxed in his arms.

Fifth time -

A soft murmur came through the baby monitor on the nightstand, causing House to rouse from sleep, reaching across the bed for Cuddy but his hand meeting cold sheets.

“Cuddy?” he raised his head and checked the bathroom, but no light was on.

The noise came through the monitor again, the softest of snores, and House smiled. He knew where she was.

Slowly standing up from the bed, he made his way down the hall without his cane, holding the wall for support. At the second door on the left he turned, pushing the door open to see the room lit by the soft glow of a night light.

In the crib a tiny baby with a headful of dark hair fussed quietly, whilst Cuddy napped in the rocking chair in the corner.

House approached the crib first, laying a gentle hand on the baby’s chest but moving to pick him up when he fussed more, hoping to head it off before the baby started crying and woke his mother.

House gently shushed his son, holding him to his chest and watching Cuddy over the baby’s spiky black hair. She stirred slightly, and House decided he’d give her until the baby was settled before waking her and walking with her back to bed. As tired as she was with a newborn, she deserved a better night’s sleep than in a wooden chair.

She looked more relaxed than she’d been in the last few weeks, in the lead up to the birth and bringing the baby home- she confided in House once they were home that she couldn’t believe it had all happened, and she finally had a baby just down the hall.

The baby squirmed in House’s arms and let out the softest of squeals, but it was enough to cause Cuddy to stir again, her eyes on the verge of opening.

If asked Cuddy would probably say this was the worst she’d looked in a long time, a newborn taking up enough of her day that she was lucky to brush her teeth and hair let alone complete her usual beauty routine, whilst House would proclaim it was the best she’d ever looked, a pink flush to her cheeks and a new shine in her eyes. Just watching her sleep now was proof of that. Her pajamas had a milk stain on them, her hair was a wild mess, she was gently snoring, and House was adoring every inch of her. It was thanks to her he was currently standing with a baby in his arms, his son, something he had given up on long ago.

The baby rooted against his chest and let out another cry, and like that Cuddy was awake.

“House?” she looked up at him, slightly groggy from her quick nap.

“Hey sleepy,” he walked over to her and handed her the baby, “I think someone’s hungry.”

She smiled down at the baby in her arms, running a hand through his whisper soft hair and watching his bright blue eyes take in both his parents.

As she went to feed the baby, House lent in and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll see you back in bed?”

Cuddy nodded, her rapt attention on her precious little Benjamin Cuddy- House.

#this is terrible ignore me #indy writes #house md #house md fic #fanfiction #5 times fic #gregory house #lisa cuddy #fluff ahoy #headcanon #house headcanons

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derekhaleimagines · 7 years

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Remedy

Tags: @the-shewxlf, @megant22, @sexywolfsfordays, @houseofrahl, @sterek-basically, @kittycatgirlmaddie, @misshinehou, @unbreakablevoices, @champagneblues, @dallysgreasergirl, @juliaspnlover, @cineyou, @lipstickstainsandwerewolfchains, @fallenangel-13x, @urwarriorangel, @bless-my-demons, @lunaskyhunter, @arkhamirwin, @fangirlnerd101, @m-a-t-91, @meanwhilesmiley, @edithambroreigns, @totallovelesson@kxttykatmichael

Word count: 1697

Author’s note: So, here’s one of the promised works, woohooo! My pack told me they aren’t familiar with the series, so it makes me even more excited to be able to introduce you to the astonishing world of House MD. :3 (Those of you who have never heard of the series: you might want to take a look at this video. I spent quite a bit of time with picking out the best that more or less sums up this complex series, and in the end, I settled on this one.) As for the picture, I’m not even the tiniest bit sorry ;) (I have a thing for uniforms and suits, seriously... if this is a disease then I’m incurably infected.)

Betas: @i-am-a-misguided-misfit, @lipstickstainsandwerewolfchains, @mixed-up-fangirl, @kittycatgirlmaddie, @fallenangel-13x, @the-shewxlf, @b-chocolatelover, @from2016, @safiac, @random-fandom-fangirl2112

Again, thank you your work, sweets!! ❤️

Masterpost

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I don’t have to hurry now, because we don’t have a new patient at the moment. Our last one was sent out of Princeton-Plainsboro safe and sound two days ago, and since then, I haven’t seen my boss’s—Gregory House’s—face. My colleagues have been busy with minor jobs, so the privilege of being in charge instead of House landed on me in the end; I have to take care of his private hours to deal with people who come to see a doctor for an illness as simple as a flu or a running nose. Of course, it was inevitable that Cuddy grew suspicious after she found everything perfectly documented and done in connection with that genius man’s consultation hours—hence, after one of the controls, she entered the room, only to find me sitting with the notepad overlapping my thighs, papers in hand, faking House’s signature on each one of them.

Since then, I’ve been forbidden to take care of the people and do House’s job instead of him, which is why my current task is to try to reach him through his phone and pray him back into the hospital to do his work properly instead of having me do it for him—but I know the only way to coax him back is finding a new case, but it’s not as easy as one might think; finding something that genuinely piques House’s interest is like looking for a needle in a hayrick.

Right now, I’m standing at the nurses’ desk with a random person’s file in hand, roaming over the lines idly just to kill the much time on my hands with my phone plastered between my cheek and shoulder to keep it in place, waiting for the dialling tone to end and hear House speak on the other end of the line—which never seems to happen.

Exhaling an exasperated breath, I place the document back into the folder holder before deciding to head to the ER. I need to find something to do, even if just a quick job, otherwise I’ll most likely go nuts by the end of the day due to a fried brain. I adjust the white labcoat and my ID card clipped to it, before picking up a stethoscope to hang it in my neck. Upon entering the ER, I look around to see a few nurses dealing with all the patients. Thankfully, upon scanning the area, I notice Allison Cameron; without thinking, I approach her in hopes she could help me, albeit she’s busy on her own.

“Hey, Cameron,” I greet her. She doesn’t even look at me, being too preoccupied with removing broken splinters of glass from a man’s skin with a tweezer.

“Lockwood,” she replies, only with a quick glance cast at me with a small smile in the corner of her mouth, then her blue gaze is already gone, focused back on her patient, resuming her task at hand.

“Do you have something for me?” I ask with just a touch too much desperation in my tone. I find myself cracking my knuckles in anticipation in the pockets of my gown.

“House is not back yet, is he?” She forms that as a question, but I have a feeling she meant that to rather be a declaration. She knows House like she knows the back of her hand—all those years she’s spent working for the man, she’s gotten used to his erratic behaviour.

“Nope. And he won’t pick his phone up either.”

“And he won’t do that unless he has a good reason to,” she points out the obvious to me; that much I know, too.

“So do you have or don’t have?” I insist stubbornly. I can’t let everyone just shake me off because it would be too inconvenient for them to find a task for me. I’m an intern, that’s part of what they are supposed to do for me. After a couple moments of contemplation, Cameron offers, “A police officer was transited here not ten minutes ago. Gunshot wound.”

“Where do I find him?” I ask immediately. She points behind me with a mild jerk of her chin, and I turn to see my new patient, but instead of himself, I find myself looking at a pale turquoise curtain. I hastily pick up every tool I’ll need to take care of the officer; I arrange everything on a metal tray before taking off towards the cop. Tucking the curtain away, I finally see him—laying on the bed, palms covering his body where the bullet passed through his skin, wide eyes now trained on me after his attention was attracted at me by the loud swoosh.

To be honest, when I was told that a member of the force was shot, I expected anything but an arrest-worthily stunning man. I thought I would find myself face to face with a tad obese man who consumes too many doughnuts during the free periods in his shift, maybe in his late forties, too—but instead of that, my patient is an attractive man with firm tones and a sculpted body. When I glance down at his chart where a nurse has previously written his data, I quickly calculate in my mind that he’s twenty-six. Years before I joined health-care, such a scenario had already been on my bucket list, but I wouldn’t have dared to think it would come true once.

Looking back into his eyes, a shiver runs down my spine when I notice how much his gaze has changed—now it conveys anger and impatience, and I would like to believe it’s not because of me, but because he was shot and is now frustrated that he can’t do justice in town.

“It takes ten minutes to treat a cop on the ER?” His voice stings me to the core, but I choose not to let his bitter remark get to me—just because he has a bad day, doesn’t mean mine has to be ruined, too. Instead of biting back something in response, I jovially smile at him as I set the tray down beside the hospital bed he’s occupying, after closing the curtain back behind me. The loud smack of the rubber gloves sharply reverberate around us as I’m putting them on.

“I imagine you don’t get to handle everything all at once, either,” I can’t resist commenting, but there’s no actual heat behind it. That seems to have the desired effect on him, though, because his stiff posture softens, tension apparently seeping out of his frame. I reach for a small cloud of cotton that I drench in the disinfectant just moments later. I grab the piece with a tweezer, then move to treat the abused area of the man’s skin. He pops the buttons on his uniform without a word, opening the garment up and revealing his naked upper body to me. It sways me a little, but I gain my strength back quickly. “This may hurt a little,” I say gently, but I must sound like I’m trailing off—and I probably am, because I’m transforming into the detached doctor I’m supposed to be at the moment.

The tiniest hiss is what I get in return to my warning as soon as the puffy material touches the wound. After I’m ready, I launch into fishing out the bullet from his body—no operation is needed, because it’s not in too deep, thanks to the bulletproof vest he wore, but had taken off before I approached him—now it’s laying on the chair stood next to his bed, long forgotten. The officer’s torso is covered in blood, and the more ministrations I do, the messier it gets, so from time to time I need to swipe him clean.

The silence settled between us is just stretching and stretching, none of us seems to have any intentions of breaking it anytime soon. Thus, the sounds of the rest of the ER encompass us—the intermittently ringing phones, the general hustle and bustle of people, patients and nurses included, a voice calling Dr. Wright to head to the nurses’ desk through the speaker, and conversations that are muted to low buzzing in our ears.

For some reason, I feel tempted to ask him how he got shot, so after a short consideration, I do just that. His answer throws me for a loop, however.

“I don’t know.”

“How can you possibly not know that?” I ask before I could stop myself and think otherwise. My hand stopped over his wound without my consent, but the bullet is out of him, and I only need to stitch him up now, so it’s fine. He doesn’t take my question personally—more so, he seems embarrassed about it. I instantly say it’s never mind, and go to resume my work, getting ready the needle and the thread, when he abruptly speaks up again. For some reason, it gives me the sense that he feels like sharing right now; not just anything, but his darkest secret, and he thinks I’m the perfect recipient of his honesty.

“I have no clue what happened. Suddenly I blacked out, then the next thing I know is that I’m in an ambulance on my way to the hospital.”

My eyebrows knit together in confusion, but refrain from commenting anything this time. I do ask him, “Did you black out after being shot or before that?”

The officer purses his lips into a thin line, apparently deep in thought to give me a plausible response. He ends up answering, “I’m not sure.”

The words barely leave his mouth when I’m muttering in a flurry, “Wait a second, I need to make an important call,” pulling off the gloves from my hands clumsily, while I’m already trying to reach for my cell phone. I put distance between the man and me, phone already plastered to my cheek and my other hand covering my free ear, find an abandoned and remotely silent corner outside of the ER, then wait for the dialling tone to stop before starting to talk.

“House, I think I found us a new case.”

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salamandergoo · 7 years

Text

It had been a long day. No cases, nothing exciting, just pain, far too much paperwork, and more pain. House was counting down the minutes, no, the seconds until he could go home and just lay down with ice on his thigh. Not to mention he’d knocked his cane over, and couldn’t reach it because it hurt to bend down, and he had to pee but couldn’t get up.

He groaned, sweating heavily as he held his pen tighter in his hand. He massaged his thigh as much as he could stand to. House squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment, biting back a curse.

“Greg?”

Great. Just what he needed. He slowly opened his eyes, seeing Wilson’s worried expression. “Just hand me my cane, Jimmy.”

Wilson frowned, bending down to pick up the cane. “What happened?”

“Knocked it over. Gravity happened.” He took his cane and painstakingly got to his feet, gritting his teeth.

“You know what I mean.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He couldn’t put much weight on his right leg, leaning heavily on his cane.

Wilson moved to stand next to him, placing a hand on his arm. Wordlessly, House gripped him as tight as he could, letting himself be supported as he focused on making it to the bathroom.

It was embarrassing, having to ask Wilson to hold him up, to help him stay standing as he relieved himself, but there wasn’t much of a choice by then.

He grunted as they started making their way back to his office, cursing when his leg buckled, nearly sending him to the floor. He let out an embarrassing cry of pain, his grip on Wilson’s shirt tightening.

Wilson was fast, moving his arms to support House’s weight. House gripped Wilson’s shirt as tight as he could, the pain sending sparks of nausea through him. He grit his teeth, putting his weight on his cane, pushing himself to stand. Wordlessly, he was helped back to his desk, sweaty and nauseous.

“I’m this close to getting out my morphine stash,” House groaned.

Wilson rubbed his back, trying to offer comfort, and for once, House didn’t protest. “Greg…”

“Just…. don’t.” He rubbed at his thigh, hissing.

Wilson was about to say something, but Foreman pushed the door open. “House, we’ve got a case.”

House grit his teeth, grabbing his cane and forcing himself to stand. “Be there in a minute.”

Foreman looked between the two of them, but didn’t say a word as he left. House grabbed the front of Wilson’s shirt, pressing a firm kiss to his lips. “I’ll be home late. Love you Jimmy.”

Wilson sighed. “You sure you’re up for it?”

“Just say you love me, be sappy, whatever. But the blood’s on my hands if mystery patient dies tonight.”

Wilson sighed. “Alright. I love you Greg.”

House smiled tiredly, limping out of the office.

It wasn’t until late that night that Wilson was in bed that he got a phone call. He reached for his phone through the quiet, inky darkness that was usual filled with soft snoring next to him.

“Hello?”

“Wilson, it’s House.” Chase’s voice was worried and tired through the phone speaker. That got Wilson sitting upright.

“What happened?”

“He collapsed and hit his head. He won’t let anyone get near him and keeps yelling for you.”

“I’ll be there in 10 minutes.”

Wilson hung up and was out of bed in seconds, grabbing his keys and racing out the door, hardly managing to put on his shoes.

He probably broke several driving laws on the way, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting to the hospital and making sure Greg was okay.

Wilson sprinted into the hospital, hearing House yelling and fighting away a nurse, voice slightly slurred and cracking from what had to be pain. He ran towards the voice, and as soon as House saw him, his eyes widened a little. “Jimmy!”

Wilson knelt down next to him. “Greg, what happened?”

House gripped Wilson’s arm tightly, his breathing staggered. “Leg gave out. Head hurts. Needed you.”

Wilson could feel the stares of the people that had gathered, but it didn’t matter as he gently ran a hand through House’s sweaty hair. “We need to check you out. Can you get up?”

House tried to get up, but his grip on Wilson’s arm got tighter and tears leaked from behind his closed eyelids. “Fuck!”

“Taking that as a no…” Wilson carefully picked House up, trying not to jostle him.

House grunted, holding onto him tightly. Chase sighed, tapping Wilson’s arm and leading him to an open exam room. House weakly protested as he was laid down, but just grabbed Wilson’s hand, keeping him from leaving. “Stay…”

Wilson smiled tiredly, sitting down. “I’m not going anywhere.”

House closed his eyes with a sigh, squeezing Wilson’s hand as he gripped his thigh with his other hand. Chase worked on setting up an IV with a morphine drip, jolting in shock when the door opened loudly.

“House, it is 11 pm. Could you have picked a worse time for this?”

House’s grip on Wilson’s hand tightened. “I was going to wait until 2 am, but the old leg decided it had waited long enough.” He cracked his eyes open, sighing. “Relax Cuddles. They’ll give me an MRI, patch up my head, and let me have morphine until maybe I can stand up, and Jimmy and I should be on our merry way.”

Cuddy gave Wilson a look that made him sink down more in his chair. “I had nothing to do with this.”

House rolled his eyes, barely flinching when Chase put the needle in his hand. “Because I decided to fall down.”

Cuddy sighed. “Well, when my best doctor who happens to be physically disabled-” she ignored the annoyed sound from House. “-falls in the hospital, I have to be here to make sure you don’t sue.”

“Not planning on it.” House tangled his fingers with Wilson’s, staring down at their hands. “I mean, I could, but I don’t feel like it.”

“That’s a relief.” There was a sarcastic edge to her voice. She raised an eyebrow at the two holding hands, but didn’t comment on it.

“God,” House muttered. “Have I told you how much I want to jump your bones every second of every day?”

Wilson’s face flushed. “I see the morphine is kicking in.” He paused. “But that does sound like something you’ve said before.”

House laughed, smiling drowsily at Wilson, pulling the front of his shirt and sitting up to kiss him. Wilson froze, knowing Cuddy and Chase were still in the room, but found himself relaxing into it. He only pulled back when House licked at his lips.

“Well.” Chase’s voice cut through the moment, startling Wilson a little. “This is… unexpected.”

“It’s… we’re… uh…” Wilson stuttered through a response, but was cut off by House.

“We’re engaged. Kissing is kind of a thing engaged people do.”

Cuddy and Chase exchanged a surprised glance as Wilson blushed darker, making House laugh. Cuddy raised an eyebrow. “How long has this been going on?”

“Well, this sap proposed about a month ago, but we’ve been fucking for about 5 years.” House smirked, the morphine getting rid of the pain enough to let him sit up comfortably.

Cuddy sighed. “This means I have to do more paperwork. I’ll be on my office.” She left, leaving just Wilson, House, and Chase.

House shooed Chase. “Go on, gossip to the others about this.” As Chase was leaving, he added another thought. “And get me a diagnosis!”

Wilson sighed, leaning against the hospital bed. “Alright, let me check tu out for a concussion.”

House sat up obediently, letting Wilson check his pupil dilation. “So how long until the whole hospital know about us?”

Wilson chuckled, gently pressing his fingers against the side of House’s head. “Before you wrap up this case.”

“Yeah? I bet before you even leave this room.”

“Always have to one up me, hm?” A little smile played at Wilson’s lips as he finished examining House, fingers covered in a slight sticky layer of blood.

“Isn’t that why you love me?” He watched as Wilson stood, getting the proper materials to patch up the slight wound on his head.

“There are many reasons. Can’t say that’s a prominent one.” He chuckled, standing next to the bed and patching him up.

“So you admit to loving me?” House was smirking.

“I literally say it every day.”

“And? I crave validation, Jimmy.”

“Fine, fine.” Wilson dramatically got on one knee. “Gregory House I love you very much and anticipate our many days ahead of us that we’ll spend together.”

“Now that’s just overkill.” House couldn’t hide his smile as Wilson stood back up.

“Uh, sorry to interrupt.” Cameron walked in with a raised eyebrow.

“You better have a diagnosis.” House didn’t even look at her, eyes still locked on Wilson.

“We’re about to run an EKG, just thought you’d want to be updated.”

House rolled his eyes, yanking Wilson into a light kiss. It tasted like sarcasm, and Wilson’s shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter. “That what you wanted to see?”

Wilson laughed as Cameron scrambled out of the room, shaking his head. “You ass.”

“I knew there was something keeping you with me.”

#hilson #my writing!!#look at me expanding my portfolio of fandoms!

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imzadi-caskett-huddy · 4 years

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House, M.D. Fanfic (4/?)

Thank you to everyone who has taken time to leave a note on my story. I hope you continue to enjoy my kind of rewrite our additions to certain episodes! As always, I don't own House. If I did, there would have been huge differences in season 8.

As stated in previous chapters, the story follows the big picture laid out on the show, but with my own take on things. This chapter deals with House being shot. I felt we were robbed of Cuddy's reaction and the aftermath.

Thanks to @love-hope-faith-feels-like-a-lie for reading my ideas and providing positive feedback! Anything in the way of feedback is always appreciated! Enjoy!

"It's House..." Those words replayed in her head. She'd heard about the shooting and was on her way to ream security about letting someone with a gun just walk around her hospital. That's when she was intercepted with those words. They immediately stopped her in her tracks. She spun on her heel in one fluid motion to divert her path to the ER trauma room where they were taking him.

Upon seeing him, she immediately called to get an OR and a surgical team before helping to stabilize and treat him. Once they wheeled him into the OR, she had a chance to breathe. Everything hit her at once as she took her gloves off to throw them away... gloves that were covered in blood. His blood. And she realized just how close she'd come to losing him.

Cuddy stood in the observation room of the OR, watching as they worked on House. She'd given them the direction to use Ketamine, as Chase had told her that's the last thing House said before losing consciousness. But she stayed out of the surgery. She told herself, and anyone else who asked, that she was his doctor, but she wasn't a surgeon. She didn't want to be in the way, but she would be watching. Truthfully, she wasn't sure what she would do if he didn't make it through the surgery, and she would prefer not to find out in a room full of people.

"He's going to be fine, you know," Wilson's voice came from the doorway. "The man is too stubborn to go out this way. It's not flashy enough," he tried to lighten the mood.

Cuddy shifted, but her eyes never left the surgery going on below her. "Thankfully he hadn't sent his team out to do any tests on the patient. If he hadn't been surrounded by doctors, he would have bled out," she commented. "How's Cameron?"

"She's understandably shaken up. They all are. Their boss was shot in front of them," he pointed out.

Cuddy sighed and nodded. "Chase is down there helping with the surgery. Do me a favor and keep an eye on Cameron. Let me know if she needs anything." She wasn't really as concerned about the men, but Cameron had shown interest in House. And she wanted to make sure the other woman really was okay. "Better yet, send Foreman and Cameron home. If they don't want to go home, they can wait for an update on House, but they aren't seeing patients today. I'll send Chase after he finishes in the OR and monitor their patient myself. I'll have them paged if anything drastic changes today," she instructed.

"You really think you should be seeing patients today?" He countered.

Cuddy looked at him then for the first time since he came in the room. "No. But it's my hospital. So my rules," she responded before turning back to the surgery. "And I'm only monitoring their patient. I also plan on interviewing every security guard here to see how the hell that son of a bitch walked right into my hospital and shot him... and then got away," she said lowly. The way she was feeling, the entire security department was liable to find themselves searching for a new job."

Wilson held his hands up in self defense to make sure she didn't take any of her anger at the situation out on him. "I'll go talk to Cameron and Foreman," he said, heading back out the door.

It was two days later before House finally woke up. Seeing Cuddy curled up in the chair beside his bed asleep, he had to smirk slightly. He immediately began to try to sit up to grab his chart.

"Put it back and lay down," she murmured, stretching a little as she sat up then.

"Wow. You look like crap," he told her.

"I look better than you. And I'm not peeing into a bag," she pointed out, shifting to check him over a bit. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got shot," he responded sarcastically. "How long have I been out?"

"2 days."

He nodded, carefully feeling around on himself for his injuries. "2 days... no wonder you look like crap."

"Shut up, House," she finally took a seat again once she was satisfied everything looked ok.

He breathed deeply. "How bad are my injuries?"

"Surgeon got the bullet out of your side. The other bullet sliced through your jugular. It's lucky it happened while you were surrounded by doctors."

"My philosophy has always been if you're going to get shot, do it in a hospital."

"Funny. My philosophy has as always been don't piss off the patient so badly that they shoot you."

He raised an eyebrow. "Right. It's my fault I got shot."

"To a point, yeah. Most doctors just get sued, but not you. No... you have to brow beat them and push their buttons until they try to kill you."

"If you had real security in your hospital, I wouldn't have gotten shot."

She was quiet for a moment at that. "I'm working to correct that." Every security guard on duty that morning had already been fired.

"Did they tell you I wanted Ketamine?" He asked lowly a moment later.

She nodded. "Yeah. How does your leg feel?" She asked.

"Not bad. I thought it was because of the morphine."

She smiled slightly, reaching for his hand as she moved closer. "It's still early, but I think the Ketamine might be working."

Only time would tell. It was still too early for him to have hope.

#house #house md #house m.d.#huddy #house x cuddy #greg house #lisa cuddy #house fanfic

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derekhaleimagines · 7 years

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Remedy pt.2

Word count: 3605

Author’s note: I’m shamelessly taking advantage of the fact that I can now insert some good ol’ House gifs in my posts. Also, authentically depicting House’s character is way harder than I initially thought, but hey -- it’s my first time with him and I’m trying :) Aaaand prepare for some (a lot of) feels! Enjoy!

Masterpost

“A shot man blacked out? You called me back to the hospital for this, idiot? There is no mystery,” House points out to me in a harsh, chiding tone. Clearly he’s moody because he’s back to work, and as such, he doesn’t fail to humiliate me in front of the entire Team for God knows how many time. But it’s fine; I’m getting used to it, and I’m usually not the only victim to his stinging snark.

“He doesn’t remember how it happened. After leaving the message I asked him further questions and it turned out that he hardly ever gets shot,” I say. House frowns at me, while his hand is rubbing his right leg instinctively, apparently without his conscious consent to it. A few seconds later, he averts his mesmerising blue eyes from me only to dart it at the dark grey rug, deep in thought.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” he states firmly, but the heat has now subsided from his tone. “Every cop gets shot from time to time.”

“Would it have been the better choice to leave him there just like that?” I snap. “I thought our priority was healing and making sure no one has further latent sicknesses by investigating until we’re convinced with one out of the many choices,” I retort, crossing my arms over my chest and giving House a meaningful look. When he glances at me, I hold gazes with him for a while before giving in to the temptation to lift an eyebrow at him. House is moving his lips and making faces in the process, while thinking through the options he has. No one speaks; we are all waiting for the boss’ decision.

“Alright. What’s your theory?”

My face lights up at his question—this means he officially accepted to take the officer’s case. I try to stifle my giddiness as I launch into my explanation, “It obviously has something to do with his brain. Most likely it was caused by Multiple Sclerosis or a tumor in his brain. I was planning to give him a CT and lumbar puncture.” House nods okay, and motions in the general direction of the glass door with his cane.

“Nice. Good for us, not good for the patient. Go ahead,” he says. I’m standing before he could even finish his sentence, and after closing the officer’s file on the table and picking it up, I head to the door with the folder clutched to my chest. However, before I’d leave the office, House warns, “If you’re wrong, you’re fired.”

The travel in the elevator seems suffocating after House’s threat. Cuddy has told him he’s not in the position to decide whether I stay or go, but I know him, and I’m definitely convinced that if he doesn’t want me to work on a case, he can sabotage my attempts to take part in it in any way.

Just to make sure, I quickly check the officer’s name once more when I arrive to the floor he’s housed on, then walk to his room, weaving my way through the few visitors and haphazard doctors. Upon entering, the man looks at me, and I give him a small smile in return, hoping he isn’t so worked up like he was yesterday.

“Derek Hale?” I ask politely, approaching the bed he’s laying on, now dressed in just a flimsy pale green outfit that the hospital’s patients are given. My eyes take a momentary glance at the monitor to see his ECG diagram.

“That’s me,” he answers. His voice conveys no distress, no anger, just resignation, like he’s surrendered to medicine. His eyes slip down to my ID then, tilting his head just the tiniest bit to align it with the angle of the card, eyes squinting to try and read my name.

“y/n Lockwood,” I introduce myself, for some reason feeling tempted to stick my hand out for him to shake. This is how it’s appropriate, right? He takes my hand in his—I’ve always known my hands are small, but the way his broad palm and long fingers wrap around it, makes it look even more insignificant in size. He gives me a firm squeeze, which I return, then we let go of each other. “I need to do a few tests on you,” I announce then, picking up his chart from the end of the bed, and pulling the pen out of the pocket over my chest, clicking it and writing on his paper the tests that are going to be done on him.

“What tests?” he asks curtly, crossing his impressively muscled arms in subconscious defence. I hang the chart back on the bed before walking back to stand next to him. “Just a CT and a lumbar puncture,” I answer. “No worries, the latter sounds worse than it actually is.”

“I’m not a vulnerable eggshell, you know,” Derek comments. For a second, I think he was offended by my statement, think that he took it personally, but the way his eyes twinkle slyly, I realise he’s just asserting his masculinity a little sarcastically. Once more, I reach out for him to help him move, but he dismisses it with a shake of his head. Throwing the blanket to the side, and turning to let his legs hang from the side of the bed, he adds, “I was just shot. I can walk by myself.”

I nod slowly, suddenly feeling embarrassed for some reason. My voice is a near squeak when I say, “Right. Follow me then, please.”

I wait while he puts his robe on to cover more of his body—the green outfit is short, like the patient is merely wearing an oversized T-shirt, and the V-neck of it leaves nothing to my imagination regarding Derek’s pectorals, collar bones and strong shoulders. He slips into his slippers, then we take off to the CT machine first.

. o O o .

“There is no tumor in his brain,” I inform the Team about the results of the CT. House gives me a look and narrows his eyes at me suspiciously. The only reason this makes me feel worse than usual is because this time he isn’t the only one standing in front of the rest of the Team—I’m there beside him, too. To relieve the tension a bit, I hold on to the folder in my hands for dear life, fingers gripping it just a touch stronger than a moment ago.

“You’re too calm,” he assesses. “Too calm for someone who was told could be fired if not everything goes smoothly. So I assume there’s more to it.”

I do my best to tamper down the smugness that’s bubbling up in my throat as I hand him over the paper with the results of the lumbar puncture. “As you can see, the amount of his proteins and leukocytes are increased.”

Chase’s head perks up from where he was playing with his pen until now, “That means encephalitis.”

“Told you it was something,” I say pointedly to House, who just looks at me in return. I suppose the knowing smirk on my face wasn’t overlooked by his insightful blue eyes, because he quips, “Come on, don’t be so happy about someone having an encephalitis. What kind of doctor are you? Sociopathic?”

I’m fast to react. “What if I told you I was?” I ask challengingly.

“The million dollar question is, what would you do upon hearing my answer, in case you’re actually a sociopath.”

“How about letting me know your answer and see where it goes?” I offer. The lightest, vaguest hint of a smile on his thin lips lights up House’s worn-out features. He tells me, “Go and give him antivirals. Also, make a test to find out if he has syphilis and check his body for potential marks of a sting from a tick.”

I don’t have to be told twice. I’m already worried about our cop just fine—I’m aware this is going against House’s number two rule here, the ‘don’t get attached to the patient’ rule. The uttermost policy is ‘everybody lies’.

I don’t find Derek in his room, so I have to go look for him. There was a case a couple months ago where we had to play hide and seek with the patient, and it was no fun for us; House was so livid, the Team was nearly snagged for someone getting fired. As for now, I couldn’t tell if my current frustration or my general worry for him is stronger at the moment—I know that if another blackout occurs, I would have to be there immediately. Besides, anything could happen to him while the time’s ticking by with me just searching for him everywhere frantically, even without him fainting.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take me more than a few minutes to find him—sitting on a couch next to the artificial waterfall, a woman on his side, the two of them holding hands. She’s wearing a black skirt suit with matching high-heels, her dark hair put in a neat ballerina bun, giving her a professional appearance. For some reason, it makes me feel utterly small, like she reminds me of the fact that I could never be like her; so strong, so attractive, so stylish. No, I’m just here in my jeans, my flat shoes and a casual shirt, all this adorned by my white labcoat and the ponytail I put my hair in this morning. I guess the clichéd roles—the queen bee and the nerd—will stick to the people for their entire lives. Inhaling deeply, I force a smile on my face before taking off towards them, but a part of Derek’s sentence is enough to stop me in my tracks.

“I’m afraid I’ll lose my job,” comes his quiet voice. The woman strokes his upper arm soothingly, then settles her hand on his shoulder and gives it an encouraging squeeze. Her other hand is still resting in her lap, palm facing up, welcoming Derek’s in it to provide him silent comfort.

“I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” she assures softly. Contrary to what it does to Derek—calming him down and giving him hope—it unsettles me to no end. I’m just about to inform him about the very serious illness that could explain his condition, and now this burden feels even more unbearable than before. “You’ll be just fine. I’m sure in two days you’re going to be chasing criminals again.” No one should be punished with having to tell someone their life is in jeopardy, or how long they have before their disease takes over. No one signs up for shattering dreams, but for healing and saving lives—saving their dreams. My body feels like a cage to me, from which I can’t escape before I’m done with my duty. With the lump huger in my throat, I force my legs to take me to where they are sitting.

“Mr. Hale,” I greet him. My voice comes out as a squeak, despite how hard I’m trying to prevent that. But seeing how his face lights up with the hope the woman gave him? It makes me want to cry, because I know I can’t live up to those expectations.

“Dr. Lockwood,” he nods to me, then motions towards the elegant woman on his side. “This is my elder sister, Laura.” I shake hands with her, but the smile I give her is tight, and I’m sure she noticed it, because her brow twitches shallowly. The grip Laura gives is firm, giving it away to me that she’s a determined person who knows what she wants, and isn’t afraid to go for it.

“Did you figure out anything?” she asks, taking her hand back. I’m taken aback by that question—usually, people start with something like, ‘he’s alright, right?’. Clearly she craves effectiveness and results, not beating around the bush. I have to swallow against the dryness in my mouth before I could speak.

“Yes,” I answer. The siblings’ attention is availably doubled at that, and my heart twists painfully in my chest, knowing that what I’m about to say is not what they are expecting to be told. This is why, I give them a meek warning beforehand, “But you won’t be happy with the results.” My voice is ginger, but tight. Even without my eyes dropping lower than their eyes, I can clearly catch the way Laura’s hand closes tighter around Derek’s. I struggle to go on, “According to the lumbar puncture, Mr. Hale’s leukocyte and protein number is higher than normal.”

“What does that mean?” Laura asks instead of Derek, tone calm and measured, but I can sense the underlying vibrating anxiousness. As soon as the words left my mouth, Derek tilted his head forward to look at the ground instead of me, like he can’t bear seeing me. It feels like a punch to the gut. I close my eyes apologetically for a moment, then explain hoarsely, “It means that Mr. Hale has encephalitis.”

This is the point where Laura loses her perfect mask of the sophisticated woman she normally shows to the world—it perishes silently, in the form of a fat teardrop escaping from her eye and rolling down her cheek. On the other hand, Derek handles it exactly how a strong man would do; he even has the capacity to wrap an arm around Laura and pull her close to him to comfort her, even though it should be the other way around. Laura, though, refuses it for being too proud, already wiping away the stray drop from her face, like it’s never made it there. Derek’s face is expressionless, and the fact he isn’t looking at me anymore stabs me in the chest. His green gaze is fixed on Laura, and nothing else.

I decide to leave them, assuming it’s the best thing I could do, but only after muttering an apology, despite I know this isn’t my fault. I shouldn’t let it get to me, and lately I’ve been getting better at it, but this single occasion ruined all my past successes. I go for the medicine I have to give Derek, then to his room to find a nurse undoing the covers on Derek’s bed.

“Erica, what are you doing?” I ask, putting the antiviral on the nightstand beside the bed. She turns to look at me with a smile.

“Changing his covers, if it wasn’t obvious already,” she quips. I can’t force a grin even for a second after what happened between me and the Hale siblings. Erica doesn’t fail to notice my unease, and she inquires, brows furrowing, “Is something wrong?” Setting down the blanket that’s halfway to being freed, she comes up to me, touching my upper arm gently.

“No, nothing,” I lie, asking the first thing that comes to my mind just to change the subject as soon as possible. “Why are you changing those?” I nod in the general direction of the mess Erica has made. She sighs and goes back to resume her work.

“He’s been going a lot to the toilet. Last time he couldn’t make it there, though, so his vomit ended up on the bed,” she replies, grimacing at the story she shared with me. Clearly the stink is bothering her.

I acknowledge her answer with a nod, then I sit down at the bed, now lacking the sheets, to wait for Derek to return, regardless of the aversion I have for that.

. o O o .

In the end, it takes Derek almost an hour to migrate back and to take his place at his now clear, freshly covered bed. He halts at the door upon noticing me, and just watches me with an expressionless stare. The stretching silence is deafening me, especially with the glass walls shutting out every noise, but this time I can’t bring myself to break it. Instead, I opt to do my job to give myself something else to focus on; I place the plastic pocket of antiviral on the hook above the bed and, after Derek laid down, I inject the other end in his vein. To my surprise and relief, he speaks up.

“How bad is my sickness?” I look at him. Derek’s gaze is darted firmly at the ceiling, not at me, making it clear to me he’s still uncomfortable with seeing me. It stings, but at least he’s now talking—I should appreciate all the small victories. His face is still devoid of emotions.

“We’ll have to figure that out with an MRI later, but right now, the priority is to find out what caused the illness in the first place.”

Derek acknowledges my answer with a nod, then closes his eyes—I get the message loud and clear; he’s telling me without words to leave him alone now. I don’t have a reason to protest, so I consent.

. o O o .

I arrive to the restaurant twenty minutes late. Rushing in, I scan the place, searching for my dinner partners. I spot them in one of the hidden corners, at a dimply lit box with a table and four chairs around it. I stride over to them with a wide grin, greeting them and taking my coat off to lay it on the back of the chair.

“Hey, y/n, long time no see.”

“Scott,” I nod, hugging him briefly before wrapping Allison up in my embrace, too. “Sorry for being late,” I say genuinely, sitting down. “My boss likes to give his Team all the work.”

“We know; everyone knows House’s reputation,” Scott waves it off with a hand.

“How are you?” I ask then, turning to Allison. She beams at me with a shining smile.

“The baby’s due on 14th February,” she announces giddily. “I’m perfectly fine, and so is my baby boy. Only two more months to go,” she drops her eyes at her extended belly, reaching up to rub it fondly, delicately. I chuckle.

“So he’s going to be a Valentine’s boy, huh. How do you know if the baby’s going to be a boy, though? You had it checked?” I ask.

“We don’t exactly know. Allison doesn’t want to check it, wants to wait until he’s born, but she’s convinced he’s a boy,” Scott explains.

“That’s cute,” I coo. A waiter comes to me to take my order, and after the brief chat I have with him, I devote my attention to my friends again.

“And how’s your internship at Princeton?” Allison asks. I shrug; honestly I really don’t wish to talk about that right now—I’d just ruin the mood with it, and that’s the last thing I want. I give them a subtle hint, “I don’t think that’s a fitting subject at the moment.” Scott winces and gives me a worried look.

“Did something happen?” I shake my head no, and pick up my napkin to busy myself with something—also to give myself an excuse not to have to look into either of their eyes.

“No,” I respond a little too late for the other two to believe it. Not that the timing would have mattered anyway; they know me all too well since high school.

“Tell us about it,” Allison urges.

“I really don’t think this is the appropriate time to –”

“y/n, don’t expect me to leave my other best friend tonight without talking this over with her,” Scott demands, a serious gleam in his deep, chestnut brown eyes. “Your face gives you away easily, you know, and I can see it’s something that deeply affected you.”

“Oh yeah, how Stiles and Lydia are doing?” I ask, desperately trying to lead the conversation in another direction, shamelessly taking the chance to talk about the other best friend Scott has without a second thought. While Scott is already opening his mouth to tell me about the other couple, Allison cuts in with a sharp, “y/n”.

“Okay, okay, got it,” I cry out, throwing my hands up in surrender. “So we have a new case since yesterday, and after testing the patient, it turned out he has encephalitis. And he’s a cop.” I take a deep breath before going on, “I had to tell him while his elder sister was there, too.”

“Poor baby,” Allison coos, reaching over the table to stroke my hand soothingly. I’m not surprised by her being so touchy-feely, nor the nickname she addressed me by—I blame it on the raging hormones in her body; thanks to them, she’s way more sensitive to emotional distress than an ordinary person, who isn’t carrying a blooming life under their heart. I manage to smile at her, albeit it doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

“We’re staying here in New Jersey until the baby’s born,” Scott chimes in to whisk the tension away, and the news don’t fail to light up my face.

“Seriously?” I ask, eyes excitedly commuting between the future parents, who just nod at the same time to me with a smile on their faces.

“Yes. And I’m going to attend controls at Princeton-Plainsboro,” Allison says proudly.

“Oh my God,” I chuckle, leaning back on the chair to rest against the back of it. “Give me a call whenever you’re there.”

“Definitely,” she promises. Scott places his hand on her belly to stroke it affectionately. I have never seen such an expression on Scott’s face before—it’s a mixture of responsibility-consciousness, fatherly protection, undying love and slight possessiveness. But above all, it’s meek.

Scott is now officially a grown-up man.

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