Chapter Text
Her head turned–slow, unsure, like her brain hadn’t caught up to her ears.
She stared at the bars, hoisting herself up with her elbows, thinking: Great. My hallucinations now come with a fucking cane.
She shook the thought off. Focus. Situation at hand.
She tilted her head slightly, analysing him. Studying him, studying her. No—scanning her. He wasn’t staring. Not even observing. He was scanning her like she was a book left open to be read.
So she kept her reaction minimal.
Careful.
Composed.
Not too human.
And in turn, she scanned him, held her breath and watched.
He looked older than the pictures, she was expecting that. The images and videos she’d dug up were from years ago. Old lectures. News clips. Recordings where he’d either raised a question no one could begin to answer, let alone understand, or created a scene by insulting someone into absolute silence. (Not that they didn’t deserve it. But that wasn’t the point.)
But the voice, though, was exactly as she had remembered hearing it that first time at twelve, hunched over a rented computer at a sketchy internet café. Hours of coffee and digging and then–there it was. A 19 second long video of him talking about a case which went haywire at a M&M conference. Something about a fatal oversight and a radiologist who “shouldn’t be trusted with a flashlight, let alone a scan.” A voice. His voice.
Back then, those 19 seconds had been enough to keep her grounded. Enough to hold onto without slipping.
Now?
Those same 19 goddamned seconds were echoing live, inside a holding cell. Un-fucking-believable.
His hair was messy more so intentionally then unintentionally. A patchy stubble clung to his jaw, one that looked like he hadn't bothered to shave off. The shirt he wore looked like it had never seen an iron let alone a hanger. The cane looked worn, a little battered, but solid. Reliable.
He didn’t say anything. Just stood there. As if he already knew that she knew who he was.
Which she did. Of course she did.
His fingers tapped the cane once. Barely. Like he was more impatient with himself than with her.
He didn’t bother with an explanation. Probably because there wasn’t one good enough. At least not the one that made any sense.
She had no idea how to react. Because this moment? This specific moment? She hadn’t prepared for it. Hadn't dared thought about it let alone hope for it.
She figured that–Maybe if I just lay back down. Maybe, just maybe , he’ll go away. You know, like a bad dream. Or a shitty therapist. Either worked.
But before she could act on the idea, he decided to break the carefully curated silence, “I wasn’t sure whether to bring bail money or a paternity test.” he said, popping the ‘t’ of the test, his words slicing right through the heavy air.
She was sitting now, fully up, no longer aware of the uneven bench that had tormented her for the past 4 hours and 17 minutes. Her stolen leather jacket pressed to the cold wall. One leg on the floor, the other resting on the bench.
She gave him nothing to go on. Just a one-sided shrug.
Then, as if testing the waters, she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear, “You look shorter than the pictures.” He didn’t.
He seems thrown off for maybe a sixth of a second. Then, looking down at her where she sat like she was halfway between boredom and a fight, he raised his left eyebrow and let out a dry, almost-scoff.
Just a quick breath through his mouth. Not a real laugh. Just enough to prove he heard her. “Perpective’s clearly a bitch,” he muttered.
Alexia knew that whilst it wasn’t necessarily a moment worth remembering, she knew that she was gonna engrave this moment deep into her brain, replaying it over and over again. Maybe it was the silence or maybe the almost effortless banter. Maybe it was the fact that the man who was supposed to be her father didn’t actually look like anyone’s father but like a morally exhausted man standing in the wrong building at the wrong time in front of the wrong 16 year old who’d already buried more versions of herself than birthdays.
Her inner monologue interrupted by the buzzing of a phone. She glanced toward House, waiting for him to pick it up. He didn’t. Not this time and not for the next three times either.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t even acknowledge it. Just silenced it, again and again, like it was background noise. She carried on staring.
A fourth buzz.
"Is your leg vibrating or are you just naturally twitchy?" she asked, pausing a beat before adding, "Jesus fuck, just pick it up before it dies of abandonment issues, will you?"
"Pretty colourful vocabulary for a sixteen-year-old, don’t you think?" he said without looking at her, ignoring the phone yet again.
Then it buzzed for the fifth time.
She shot him a look, eyebrows raised and continued, undeterred. "Wow, the fan club’s really desperate, huh? Guess the patient’s dying dramatically enough then."
House sighed, loudly, like he was the one being inconvenienced, finally pulling the phone out of his pocket. He glanced at the screen, rolled his eyes and answered.
"This better be life-threatening. Because if I find out I paused my night for heartburn, someone’s getting a rectal thermometer and no lube."
He stared at the ceiling, squinting, there was a faint murmur on the other end, too soft for her to make out. Whatever it was, House didn’t seem to care.
"I’ve got a hooker going down on me right now. Why the fuck are you calling?"
Alexia snorted, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. House glanced at her, amused.
"Congrats. You morons finally broke a patient." He exhaled sharply through his nose, already bored.
"Did you run the cort-stim test or are you still waiting for the symptoms to spell it out for you?" He looked at Alexia, then made a sarcastic ‘can you believe this shit’ gesture with his hand.
"Let me guess, you tapered the steroids without checking adrenal reserves. Congratulations, you induced an Addisonian crash." There was a short pause.
"Hydrocortisone IV. Now. Saline, wide open. And tell Chase the patient doesn’t have gastroenteritis just because he puked once. It’s not always a stomach bug, sometimes it’s just the bad medicine you idiots think to prescribe." Another beat of silence. She could hear murmuring again on the other end, probably frustrated.
"Yes, Cameron. I am being condescending. Because I’m right and you’re still two steps behind a first-year med student with access to Google."
A final pause.
"Call me if he codes again. Or if Foreman starts thinking he’s God, I’d like to be notified before the plagues." He hung up, she assumed, probably mid-response like the conversation offended him, putting the phone back without a second glance.
She had been watching the rest of the conversation with an unreadable expression. Then, slowly, she sat up straighter.
"If that’s your version of helping, I’d hate to see what screwing up looks like." A beat passed. She hesitated, then decided to say the next part anyway.
"You seriously skipped out on solving someone’s life just to sit here and insult mine?"
Too late.
He looked her dead in the eye, gave her a once-over and replied, his voice flat, but almost loaded with something unspoken.
"Can’t fix either. Might as well pick the one that talks back."
Without another word, he stood his cane against the wall and gradually lowered himself to the ground beside it with a stifled groan, mirroring her position—bad leg stretched out in front, the other bent close. Then, casually, he started drumming his fingers against the dusty floor.
That simple act unsettled her more than anything he’d actually said or meant with his words.
Because this felt like a decision. Why was that worse?—She asked herself. She didn't need to.
She already knew the answer– him sitting felt like a decision, one she hadn't made, but was made for her.
His rhythmic tapping drew her out of the inner spiral that had started to crack open and she welcomed the distraction choosing to focus on the rhythm.
Tap-tap... ta-tap... tap-tap-ta-tap... and repeat.
She tilted her head, eyebrows furrowing as she studied his fingers. Then she looked at him accusingly.
"Seriously? Out of all the songs, you chose to tap out Sweet Child o’ Mine like it’s Morse code?" She huffed out a laugh. The sound surprised both of them.
His face didn’t change, but the corner of his mouth twitched, just slightly, but she caught it in time, storing it away like evidence.
"Took you long enough," he muttered, still tapping.
She shifted again, crossing her legs on the bench, shaking her head in response.
"Great. Now I miss my guitar," she muttered.
He didn’t even look at her. Just raised an eyebrow slightly and said, "You mean the same guitar you got yourself arrested over?"
Scrunching up her face, she looked at him with distaste and mimicked his words mockingly. “You mean the same guitar you got yourself arrested over?”
He looked at her fully now, clearly amused.
She rolled her eyes, exhaling slowly through her nose, debating whether to actually respond or just sit there and ward through the thick ribbons of silence.
Not really a fan of the silence, she pressed forward.
"Someone stole it. I tracked it down to a pawn shop." Her first actual reply that wasn't sarcasm, wasn't a quip. Just a solid fact.
She stood up, stretched her legs and made her way toward the bars, leaning her right side against the cell wall as she took a good look at him sitting on the floor.
"Wasn't stealing. Just reclaiming," she drawled, emphasizing the ‘reclaiming’ with a lazy gesture of her hands.
"Right," he replied, dry, "because the cops just tend to love semantic arguments from teenage felons."
She shrugged the shoulder that wasn’t pinned to the grimy brick wall. "Didn’t know I needed your approval to commit a felony."
"Next time, just try a receipt," he shot back, fingers now drumming aimlessly on his bad leg.
Not wanting to back down, she added, "So what now? You’re gonna drag me from here to breakfast and lecture me about life choices?"
He gave her a look.
"God, no. I’m not even pretending I like you yet."
"Cool. I’ll add that to the list of ‘fatherly milestones’ you’re missing."
He smiled at that, not a smirk, not a scoff. A real half a second smile. Like the comment caught him off guard. Or maybe it was her audacity that did it. He wiped it away quickly, but not before she stored the image safely somewhere private and stubborn in her brain.
The silence returned and stretched out. Not the comfortable kind, this one was taut, sharp, full of unsaid confessions. Ones that would probably never be made. The kind of silence you could break open and find everything you were avoiding.
Alexia stuffed her hands into the pockets of her ratty blue denim and inclined her head toward the brick wall, occasionally flicking her eyes back toward him.
His gaze hadn’t moved from her. The drumming had ceased a while ago.
She kept expecting him to say “Alright then,” followed by something snide and get up. Kept expecting him to grab his cane and limp out of the cell. Kept expecting him to leave.
But for some reason, he kept on not leaving. Instead opted to sit on the dusty floor outside her holding cell, fixing her with his gaze. He wasn’t really just passing through.
He was making himself comfortable. And comfort didn’t belong in cells.
Wanting to poke the bear a little more, she muttered under her breath, “God, this night sucks. Should've just set the pawn shop on fire and proceeded to call it a day.”
He fired back without missing a beat, “What sucks is that your taste in guitars is worse than your taste in legal strategy.”
Alexia raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching.
“You haven't even seen my guitar yet.”
“Don’t need to,” he said, already looking away.
“I can smell the angst from here.” Said in that tone she now officially filed under the ‘ House being House ’ category, equal parts deadpan and provoking.
There were words gathering in her throat which weren't even thoughts yet. They were just there, tumbling around, trying to escape. She bit down hard, jaw tight, as if her teeth could stop them from spilling out. But before she could overthink it, her tongue betrayed her.
“Why are you even here ?” The words fell out, flat and unplanned.
She grimaced immediately, as if she’d tripped over herself. Her brain clearly hadn’t signed off on that one and her mouth was definitely working on its own accord.
House didn’t answer right away. He stared off at some fixed point above her—maybe the cracked paint, maybe nothing.
“The system called me.”
“And you came?” she asked, more bitter than she'd planned.
He finally looked at her, slowly, deliberately. “I was curious. Curiosity’s fatal.” A pause.
“Let’s see if irony is too.”
She didn’t reply. Instead, she went straight to fidgeting with the zipper on her beat-up leather jacket, twisting the metal between her fingers.
But he didn’t bother to let the silence win for long.
“It smells like regret and old baloney in here,” he muttered. Then added, almost as an afterthought, “Which is fitting, because your mother wore the same perfume.”
She stopped mid-zip. Her fingers stilled. Then, very slowly, she turned her head and gave him the world’s slowest side-eye.
“Digging up the dead already ? Didn’t think we were that close yet.”
“We’re not,” he said, like the very idea was idiotic to even consider.
Then he added, “But she had taste. Terrible, but... I’m assuming consistent.”
Alexia gave a half-snort, shaking her head like there was some cosmic joke only she could hear.
“ Yeah , terrible’s about right. She overdosed with a crack pipe and a cat in her lap. So, y’know, you could say that again.”
She let out a small chuckle, dry and humourless, but it was there. Almost like she was daring him to laugh with her.
House looked at her for a beat longer than usual. It wasn’t pity in his eyes, he’d rather choke than offer that, but something just hither of recognition.
“Impressive,” he said finally. “Most kids wait until therapy to roast their dead parent.”
Alexia shrugged. The pent-up energy had crept back into her limbs, buzzing under her skin. She started pacing the cell, bootheels echoing in small, restless taps. She spotted a pebble in the corner, probably dragged in on someone’s shoe and nudged it with her foot. Once, twice. Then started kicking it lightly between her boots like a half-assed game of soccer.
She glanced at him as she passed by.
“Guess I’m an early bloomer, then.”
***********
She wasn’t exactly sure how long she’d been kicking the pebble around, but judging by the faint streak of light bleeding through the narrow, barred half-arch cut into the wall near the ceiling opposite to her, she figured sunrise wasn’t far off. The night had started lifting, barely. That grey, indifferent kind of morning that didn’t exactly warm the bones but still showed up.
House had grown visibly bored about fifteen minutes ago. He’d started spinning his cane like a drum major, occasionally glancing her way with a sigh so dramatic it might have earned a standing ovation in a mime. Every time she accidentally-on-purpose kicked the pebble out past the bars, he gave her the same deadpan look, rolled his eyes with Olympic precision and waited while she smiled all cheeky, eyes crinkled and then used the tip of his boot to push it back in. The routine had repeated. And repeated. And repeated.
Currently, she was locked in the most important match of her imaginary football career—just one more goal and she would secure her legacy. The cell bars were the goalposts. The pebble was the ball. And she? She was Pelé. Or Messi. Or maybe just Alexia Black: certified inmate of the year and MVP of solitary-cell soccer. She was quite fond of the title.
With all the finesse of a toddler with something to prove, she angled her foot and gave the pebble one final kick. It skimmed off the wall, made a lazy arc and rolled directly toward House’s feet again.
She mimicked a roaring crowd under her breath, threw her hands in the air like she'd just clinched a World Cup victory and dramatically paced the length of the bench like it was a victory lap.
Before House could make some sarcastic remark about how the only thing she’d scored was a trip to the psych ward, the familiar sound of footsteps broke through the space.
It was the same guard, the one who’d abandoned her hours ago. Only now, he was walking back toward her cell with a new kind of posture. The bored disdain was still very much there, but it was dressed up now with something bureaucratic and obligatory.
House clocked him approaching, rested his cane across his thighs, stretched out his hands like he was preparing for a particularly mediocre piano recital and muttered,
“Finally. I was starting to bond .”
The guard didn’t respond, just handed House a folded piece of paper without a word, then made his way to the cell door, keys clinking.
His voice came out gravelly, like it hadn’t been used in a few hours, “Paperwork’s through. You’re free to go.”
Alexia muttered under her breath, more to herself than anyone else, “Oh yay, another round of state-sponsored babysitting.”
House was already pushing himself up, cane under one arm, using the nearby wall for some leverage. The piece of paper had already disappeared into his jacket pocket by the time he stood, shifting his weight onto the better leg.
“They gave me custody,” he said, not really looking at her or anyone in particular.
Then, either because he felt like it or just because he could, he added, “Temporary, obviously . But apparently all it takes to be a legal guardian now is a limp, a license and a really really low bar.”
Her head whipped toward him so fast her neck protested. Brows up, eyes wide. A rare, unguarded moment of shock flickered across her face.
“Excuse me?” she said, not bitter, just stunned at the sheer audacity of reality.
House didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just shrugged. “Don’t blame me. Blame the social worker with the questionable standards.”
He thumped his cane once like punctuation.
“Right,” she muttered slowly, slightly frowning now, visibly trying to press the brakes on the rising tide of her own thoughts. Her brain was trying to catch up to what she’d just heard, but everything felt weirdly muffled, like someone had hit pause and she was stuck, mid-frame.
She blinked once. Then again. Tried to run the sentence back in her head, like maybe she’d misheard it. Like maybe he hadn’t just said the words “custody” and “legal guardian” in the same breath.
She almost laughed. Almost .
Instead, she chose to play with the metal zipper of her jacket–running it up and down, grounding herself in the discomfort. A few heartbeats passed in a blur before she finally blinked herself back into the present, slipping back into her usual brand of half-baked bravado.
At some point during the exchange, the guard had opened the cell door and was just standing there, waiting for her to get a move on.
She puffed out her cheeks and passed the air from side to side like a human stress ball, then let it go all at once like a popped bubble and finally stepped forward. Stretched dramatically, her body cracking from hours spent confined in the small eight by eight box. She did a few over-the-top lunges as she walked out like she was warming up for a prison marathon. She rubbed wrists all melodramatic even though the cuffs had been off for a good few hours.
House had already started walking and she let him take the lead, dragging her steps behind him. Hands buried deep in the oversized pockets of her jacket, mind racing but legs moving anyway.
She hesitated at the edge of the cell’s threshold just a split-second pause wondering–he still hadn’t left. Which meant either she was stuck with him, or he was stuck with her. The jury was out on which of them had the worse deal–and then chose to fall in step beside him.
************
The guard had led them to a small, windowless black office. The air smelled vaguely of burnt coffee and floor polish. At the centre of the room sat Marsha Caldwell, a clipboard woman, oversized glasses perched on her nose like surveillance equipment, an aggressively pastel sweater. She looked like a seasoned Karen—dead-eyed and exhausted.
She was seated at a folding table like she was about to lead a grief counselling circle. In front of her sat a thick file, the cover stamped in red block letters:
BLACK, ALEXIA N.
When her gaze landed on Alexia, she sighed in that passive-aggressive way that tried (and failed) to cloak exhaustion under professional neutrality, maybe attempting to convey her ever-mounting disappointment like a badge of honour.
“Alexia,” she said, smiling far too tightly.
“Alex,” Alexia cut in, automatic and unbothered.
Marsha exhaled lightly through her nose, defaulting to insincerity. “Right. It’s... been a while.”
Alexia gave the room a sweeping glance, unimpressed, then muttered under her breath, “ Not long enough. ”
House stood behind them, watching the exchange with mild interest. He raised an eyebrow slightly, filing the tension away somewhere in his mental archive to be dissected later.
Marsha’s voice slid into the syrupy softness of someone who'd read too many therapy textbooks. “Now, given the recent incident and your history, this is a big change. We’re going to be designating Dr. House as your temporary legal guardian under emergency placement.”
Alexia tilted her head, more amused than alarmed and said with a dry note of disbelief, “Wait—he’s getting me by accident?”
House, without missing a beat, spun his cane once in his hand and limped toward the folding chair across from Marsha. He dropped into it with a grunt and rested his bad leg out long.
“Oh, relax. I’ll be the cool, detached legal guardian who’s emotionally available once every fiscal quarter.”
Marsha blinked like she’d just remembered she wasn’t being paid enough for this. Her eyes flicked to the folder again before she slid a few sheets toward House and dropped a pen on top like it was an ultimatum.
“Dr. House, this is the temporary guardianship paperwork. You’ll need to sign here, here... and here.”
She didn’t wait for acknowledgement, turning toward Alexia instead with her usual ‘I’m concerned and trying’ look and droned on.
“You’ll be returning to the school you previously attended when the break ends.”
“We’ll be conducting home visits.”
“She’ll remain in your care pending further evaluation.”
“Court hearing in two weeks.”
“No illegal activity. No skipping classes.”
Alexia raised her eyebrows, arms crossed and resting against the back wall.
“Cool. So... no oxygen either, right?”
Marsha frowned, unimpressed. “I know this isn’t easy, but we’re giving you a real chance here, Alexia.”
Alexia didn’t even bother to hide her eyeroll. “You’ve been ‘ giving me chances ’ since I was seven. Pretty sure at this point, it’s just a long con.”
She didn’t respond, just fixed her with another look full of artificial concern. House scribbled on the pages with almost surgical laziness, then flicked the pen toward Marsha like it was a scalpel he was done using. As he pushed himself up, slowly, carefully, the grunt a little louder this time and he grabbed his cane, then glanced back at her.
“Just to be clear, if she runs off, I don’t get arrested, right?”
Marsha looked visibly alarmed. Alexia just snorted.
Marsha, electing to pretend the question hadn’t been asked, began gathering the papers into a neat stack with an exhausted efficiency.
“Alright. That’s all, then.” She stood and walked towards the door then looked back and gave Alexia one of those painfully earnest expressions. She knew that look. The “ please don’t end up in juvie ” look. The “ you’re such a special case ” look. It was the same look Marsha had plastered on the day they took Crystal away.
“I’m rooting for you, Alexia.”
Alexia wrinkled her nose like she smelled something off. “Well, that makes one of us.”
She turned, hands shoved into her pockets as if she could hide her entire life in them.
The guard reappeared at the door, looking like he’s mentally already clocked out for the day. “You’re good to go,” he grumbles, jerking a thumb over his shoulder toward the hallway.
Alexia, halfway to the door, pauses and looks at House like she just remembered she left the stove on in a house she didn’t live in.
“Oh, wait, wait, wait—my guitar.”
House looks at her, unimpressed.
“Really? We just barely convinced them to let you out of a cell and you wanna go back in for musical accessories?”
She crosses her arms, tilting her head stubbornly.
“If you want me to function like a semi-normal human being, I need my guitar. Imagine therapy. But with strings and less condescension.”
He huffs a laugh and turns to the guard.
“She’s requesting emotional support property. Which, tragically , is being held in evidence. You gonna make a traumatized teenager go through withdrawal?”
And in turn alexia makes an over top puppy face at him, eyes wide, lips pouted.
The guard looks caught between disbelief and fatigue. “I-I’ll check.”
House leans in dramatically, doing a mock salute. “Much appreciated, Officer.”
A beat later, the guard returned with a large clear evidence bag and inside it, her guitar.
It was a vintage, customized Fender American Acoustasonic Telecaster, black-bodied with fading stickers and chipped edges that made it look like it had lived through three music videos and a bar fight. The small wooden panel near the base still carried the carved signature of its previous owner—the old man from the pub who’d handed it to her like it was sacred. If someone was to look inside the sound box, they’d see song lyrics, scratched in by hand. Maybe hers. Maybe his.
Alexia’s fingers wrapped around the neck before the bag even hit the table. She let out a sigh so soft it almost counted as affection.
She turned to the guard, that same slow, lazy smile plastered on her face, the one she’d been using to professionally annoy him for hours.
“Aw, look at you,” she cooed. “You do care, Prison Daddy. This whole ‘gruff silence’ thing is just your love language, isn’t it?”
The guard stared at her, blinked once as if his soul had quietly left the room to go scream into a pillow.
Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and walked away.
Not briskly. Not in a rush. Just with the exact speed of someone who knew if he said one word, he’d lose his job.”
House blinked at her, head tilted just slightly, trying to figure out whether she was serious, or if he had somehow manifested a daughter out of sheer karmic punishment.
“What is wrong with you?” he muttered, mostly to himself, but loud enough for her to hear.
She waved him off. “You wouldn’t get it.”
Then she hugged the guitar close to her chest like armor, chin resting on the edge.
“So,” she said, tilting her head, “still think my choice in guitar sucks?”
House eyed the instrument. Took in the wear, the war wounds, the history etched into it. And the fact that it was one of the first editions, hard to get your hands on.
A breath. A beat.
And then he replied, “That guitar looks like it’s been to hell and probably played a set while it was there.”
Then, dryly, “Still. Better taste than I gave you credit for.”
She just smirked and walked ahead with a smug skip in her step.
The two of them exited into the early morning light, the street still quiet, tinted blue-grey with a sliver of gold beginning to spill into it.
Alexia tightened her grip on the guitar strap slung across her shoulder and glanced sideways at House.
“So… what now?”
He limps ahead of her toward the parking lot, not looking back.
“Now? We go home, or at least something vaguely shaped like it.”
“You mean your home.”
He shrugs. “Technicalities.”
She rolls her eyes, shifting the guitar strap slightly.
Still, she followed.