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Chapter Text

When Gregory House opens his door, his eyes are forced down to the girl that stands on his stoop. She has long straight hair and an expression of mild annoyance, as though she were the one being inconvenienced. The girl seems tall for her age, maybe twelve, and clutches a folder in her hands. On her back is a purple backpack that looks full to bursting.

“I didn’t realize they hired mailmen so young,” he remarks.

“Dr. House?” the girl replies, ignoring the blithe comment.

House cocks his head to the side, sizing her up.

“I need help,” she says. She’s staring right at him, refusing to break eye contact.

He gives her a once over but doesn’t immediately find an issue. No tremors, standing straight, seemingly of sturdy mind and body. All limbs intact, fingers accounted for at least. This, of course, doesn’t mean that she can’t be–

“It’s my mother.”

She glances at his shoes now, her eyes briefly fixated on the bottom of his cane, before gazing up at him again.

“I’m not leaving,” she says, her brows furrowing, the hint of a waver in her voice threatening to overwhelm her. She sounds as though she almost believes what she says.

“Well, I’m sure I’d love to be harassed by a twelve-year-old girl–”

“I’m thirteen,” she interjects.

House finds something intriguing about the girl but he can’t put his finger on what. It’s usually the parent that begs him to help their child, not the other way around. Too often the cases are boring or easily solved, not suitable for talents like his. She’s got a sense of gumption about her that he doesn’t think most teenagers have.

House opens the door despite himself and gestures her in.

Something about her makes him want to hear her story.

“By all means,” he says.

–

“Aren’t you going to ask who I am?” asks the girl, taking up residence at his kitchen island. Her feet tap nervously on the barstool’s spindle. House leans back against the counter, his fingers drum along with her on the grip of his cane. He stops when he realizes the synchronicity.

“Stranger danger really only applies to kids,” says House, setting a glass of water in front of her. He picks up his mug of coffee but doesn’t drink. “ And you already know who I am.”

The girl reminds him of a distant memory. 

Her fingers pick up the rhythm that her feet have stopped. She’s taking in the kitchen’s decor. Surprisingly well-stocked for a household of one. Maybe, she thinks, it used to matter to him.

“I don’t think manga is a cookbook,” she says, pointing at his cabinet shelf. 

House looks to his left near his feet at the row of spines behind him. “Says you ,” he mutters with an eye roll. 

She turns her face to the side, looking at the back wall now. He watches her pass judgment at his unwashed pots from yesterday’s dinner. Macaroni and cheese? Surely he could do better than Kraft dinners. 

“You know,” says House, pulling her attention from his unkempt kitchen. “You look like a girl I met once.” 

The girl can’t tell if he’s joking. Neither can he. 

“Oh, and I let you in here so I could hear myself talk.”

She lets the silence linger a moment longer, savoring her upper hand. 

“What, is the suspense killing you?” she says wryly.

House smirks, then shrugs.

“My name is Remy,” she adds, annoyed she was never even asked the question. 

“I thought you said you were Thirteen ,” House quips.

“Remy Hadley,” she restates. She straightens herself in her chair.

“No one can help my mother,” she says, opening the folder and pulling out sheets of medical history. “She refuses to go to the hospital. She’s angry. And twitchy.” She glances down, searching for the right words in the hardwood. “Tremors. She’s not herself.”

“MS. Parkinson’s. Boring.” Still, House takes the bait and grabs the papers from the counter. 

Anne Hadley. Born 1959.

“What’ve you got in the bag?” he asks, gesturing to her backpack. Her guard goes up once more and she deflects the question. A flash of temper that cannot be controlled.

“Nothing,” she scowls. “Just my stuff.” House quietly takes note of this reaction and moves along.

”If she won’t go to the hospital, why would you need me?” he asks, perusing the sheet.

Remy shrinks back into herself. “Stupid,” she mumbles beneath her breath.

“You’re sure mommy’s not sneaking bottles of vodka when you’re at school?”

“Yes.”

“Everybody lies,” House says with a shrug. “And Grandma? Big drinker? Crack addict?”

“No,” says Remy with a hint of smugness. “She killed herself before I was born.”

House files this away for later but doesn’t skip a beat.

“So. She won’t come to the hospital by herself. How are you getting her there?”

He’s got a few ideas of his own. Faking her own injury might work, but–

The girl gives him a devilish smile. “I’ll need your help with that too.”

—

“House, you can’t take a patient that hasn’t been admitted to the hospital,” says Foreman in disbelief. “We can’t run any tests, we can’t ask her anything–”

“We can’t run any tests yet, ” says House, scrawling the list of symptoms with a dramatic flourish.

Tremors. Mood change. Clumsiness.  

He checks his watch. “She should be here soon.”

Cameron throws Chase a look.

He’s already working a case he hasn’t taken. The patient isn’t even admitted.

Chase doesn’t blink. House playing by the rules would be more surprising.

House turns to the team. “Differential diagnosis, go.”

“Bipolar disorder. Depression.”

“PTSD.”

“Tourette’s.”

“Bipolar disorder with Tourette’s.”

—

“House, you can’t take a patient that hasn’t been admitted.” Cuddy shoots him a what-are-we-doing-here look , moving from behind her desk to show him the door.

“Please?” he asks, his hands raised in mock supplication.

“If she walks in through that front door, sure,” she says, holding the door open expectantly. “And no, that is not a challenge.”

House puts on his best puppy-dog eyes. “ Pretty please?”

“Out.”

—

His pager beeps. Patient en route.

He shoves the bottle of caffeine pills back into a desk drawer.

Not many kids would drug their own mother. Even fewer would ask him how to do it.

—

“House really took a case where he thought the patient was just really good at hiding her alcoholism from her daughter?” asks Chase, rummaging through the garbage and recycling. 

“Be grateful this time we have a key,” replies Foreman from the bathroom.

“That’ll hold up in court, I’m sure. ‘Your honor, the daughter gave us the key–’” says Chase.

“You’d think the daughter would notice,” interjects Cameron, “especially since she’s noticed everything else. Her other symptoms, I mean. I don’t think you can hide it that well in a place like this.”

“I can’t even see a single drug in here at all,” says Foreman as he takes stock of the medicine cabinet and the utter lack of cleaning items from under the sink. He takes a bottle of herbal supplements that might mean something.

He pulls the curtain back to reveal the shower.

“Holy shit,” he says. “Guys!”

–

While her mother goes back for a plethora of scans, Remy sits in House’s office. He tosses a stress ball into the air, catching it again and again with the same hand.

“Is this what you do all day?” she asks, eyes narrowed.

“Sometimes I take a nap,” House responds. Up and down. Up and down. Her eyes are fixated on the ball, moving up and down in sync with his throws.

His phone beeps. He throws the ball at Remy and she catches it easily. Impressive . House glances at his phone, expression unchanged.

“You don’t get home much, do you?” he asks, his legs up on his desk, one arm behind his head.

“No,” she admits. 

“Mommy’s biggest advocate avoids mommy,” he says, almost to himself. “So you wouldn’t notice a drug or alcohol problem.”

“I think it would be hard to hide in a one-bedroom apartment.”

“But not impossible.”

“No,” she concurs. “But she doesn’t leave the house. She’s scared. Anything that comes into the house is brought in by yours truly.”

House ponders this, but still doesn’t find it wholly convincing.

“Grandpa was an alcoholic. I’ve never seen her take a drink of the stuff,” she adds. There’s a controlled, almost clinical way she responds to this.

“She swears off ibuprofen or even pepto bismol. She’s felt every headache she’s had since I’ve known her,” Remy says. “If you’re hoping for a quick solution, you’re going to need to be more creative,” she says, crossing her arms before sinking back into the couch.

House turns his phone to her. “Since you’re not home all the time, you probably didn’t notice this.”

Black mold blooms from the bottom grout of the shower. Remy swallows hard.

–

“Everybody lies but this kid doesn’t?” Foreman asks, hurrying down the hallway to catch up with House.

House stops. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, might we have a bit of a munchausen-by-proxy situation going on here?”

House opens his office door to write down Mold and Munchausen on the whiteboard.

“You’re saying any kid that cares about their mom is a psychopath?” asks Cameron in disbelief.

“I’m saying, how could you care about your own mom and leave the bathroom looking like this? How would you not notice?” Foreman retorts.

“They’ve been here for a day,” Cameron says. “You’re assuming it was there when they left.”

Foreman shakes his head. “No way that grows like that in a day.”

“It might,” Chase adds. Foreman shoots Chase a disparaging look.

In House’s mind, he squares this with the story that Remy has spun for him. Never touched alcohol in her life. Won’t even take an ibuprofen.

House makes the choice. Maybe Foreman has a point. “Run a tox screen. And see what’s in her bag.”

– 

Remy sits by her mother’s bed, hoping that despite everything, she will think her brave for putting her mother through all of it. 

Anne Hadley rests peacefully for the first time in a long time. The cocktail of sedating drugs runs through her system to prevent the panic attacks that have long prevented doctors from running any diagnostics at all. Remy knew it would be hell on Earth getting that woman into an MRI machine, but Remy, not a religious child by any means, found herself praying to any and every higher power that they might be able to get something readable out of it.

–

“Tox screen is clear,” says Cameron, breaking the news.

“Rules the kid out,” says House. He crosses out Munchausen’s from the board.

Chase pulls out the MRI image and the radiologist’s notes. “Some motion artifacts here. We can rule out demyelination. No MS,” adds Chase.

“Motion artifacts?” asks House.

“Panicky in the machine,” Foreman says. “Not unusual.”

“Unusual, no. Annoying? Very,” says House. “Even sedated?”

Foreman nods. 

“Could be Parkinson’s, Huntington’s, ALS,” suggests Cameron.

“Maybe she’s just a caffeine addicted woman with bipolar disorder,” says Chase.

“She’s been eating hospital food and we’ve been adding low-dose hydroxyzine to her IV this whole time,” retorts Cameron. “Her tremors are real.”

Foreman interjects. “Could still be the kid. You know, if mom loves the coffee, could be sneaking it to her. Tremors aren’t getting any better if mom’s still getting her fill.”

“Nah,” says House. “Caffeine pills are what landed her in the hospital.” 

All three of them stare at him in disbelief.

“What?” he says, with mock indignation. “ I didn’t do it.”

“Yeah. I’m sure you didn’t.” Foreman shoots Cameron a look. “Clearly, she’s already drugged her mom.”

Cameron stiffens. “Her mom has almost no medical history. I think she was doing whatever it took to get her here.”

Foreman scoffs.

“I would’ve done the same,” Cameron says, defensively. 

“You don’t know anything about this kid,” Foreman pushes.

“Her mother couldn’t even get through her MRI without panicking,” Cameron adds.

Chase exhales heavily, tired of the bickering, returning his focus to the scans.

“Alright, we get it. The kid’s a saint,” House says. “Any other bright ideas?”

She doesn’t flinch. “Parkinson’s. Huntington’s. ALS.”

“Christ,” Chase mutters. “Depressing list.”

House waves him off as he scribbles her suggestions on the board. “Life’s not all about rainbows and curable diseases,” he says. 

He steps back to review.

“So. Neurodegenerative diseases. Family history is inconclusive,” says House, shaking his head. “See if you can find anything about Grandma. Oh, and what was in her bag?”

“You’re snooping in a thirteen-year-old’s bag?” asks Cameron with incredulity.

Foreman ignores her. “Clothes, chapstick, hair ties,” he rattles off.

“And?” House asks expectantly. He knows there’s something in there. He’s sure of it.

“And,” Foreman sighs. “A college textbook on neurology and a copy of the DSM-IV.”

House raises an eyebrow. “Paging Dr. Hadley.”

– 

Remy walks into House’s office without invitation. He’s throwing the ball to himself again . There’s something about his nonchalant behavior that threatens to break the last shred of sanity that’s keeping her together.

“Why don’t you visit your own patients?” she asks.

“Don’t need to.”

“You don’t even know who you’re treating.”

“I have all the information I need.”

She scoffs and nearly walks out the door.

“I don’t know a lot about you Dr. House,” she says, one hand on the door. “But you don’t seem like the type that would trust others’ eyes over his own.”

Remy looks at him and sees that same, smug look he always seems to have.

House changes the subject. “Where’s your dad?”

She’s nearly out the door before the question stops her in her tracks.

“He left.”

House nods. 

“How long ago?”

She knows down to the hour her dad left. It festers in her mind but she doesn’t bring it to her tongue. Some things are hers to keep.

 “When I was eight.” It’s a well-rehearsed answer.

House can see he’s pulling on a thread here that threatens to topple her carefully constructed emotional wall.

“He left because…” He lets the sentence hang, waiting for her to finish it. 

Her jaw clenches. She turns away, wound tight as a spring.

“Why does it matter?” she snaps. “Now, go visit your own patient for once. You might learn a thing or two.”

–

House slides open the door to the hospital room. 

Remy has fallen asleep sitting up in a chair. Her body looks horribly contorted but she seems peaceful, her mind blissfully unaware about her own positioning, prioritizing sleep over all.

When House finally looks at the woman in the bed, he’s taken aback.

Anne is as cognizant as ever. Her daughter wakes with a start.

The recognition on both their faces is palpable.

“House?”

Chapter Text

1991

The music at this wedding is oppressively loud. He’s choking on the stagnant air of sweaty drunk people and his date, Denise, is lost in a sea of people. The tent fills with the multicolored lights of a disco ball. House can’t remember who the bride and groom are. Denise’s cousin? He’s not even sure why he’s here until he remembers the free meal and open bar. He can name about thirty more institutions more sacred than marriage (Princeton being one of them).

He asks for another gin and tonic from the bartender, screaming over the music to be heard, and retreats outside to listen to himself think. All this money blown on a shitty disco ball and the world’s worst DJ, who insists that everyone needs to hear Every Rose Has Its Thorn for a third time.

One hand full of drink, the other finds its way to his tie and loosens it. 

He likes Denise. She’s smart. Painfully smart. The kind of intellect that, if his ego allowed, he might describe as better than his . She has a kindness about her that stops short of cloying. In a word: refreshing. House doesn’t know much about the matters of the heart, but he suspects that Denise doesn’t think about him in that way either. He’s seen the way she tries, almost desperately, to get endocrinologist Carey to look at her. She’s the kind of person to be liked by everyone and loved by none. She doesn’t seem to mind.

It was therefore not surprising when she had extended an invitation to him for a wedding. He took no offense in knowing that he was not the first invitee. Failing to come up with a good excuse, House agreed.

“My, my,” says a woman’s voice from behind him, giggling. “If it isn’t Dr. House himself.”

House turns quickly to look at a woman he’s never seen before.

In one hand is her glass of wine, half full, her lipstick staining the edges. In the other, both heels. She walks barefoot toward him surprisingly steadily for someone who sounds five drinks deep.

A girl who can hold her liquor or one that’s good at faking it. House finds this amusing. 

“You must be Anne,” he counters as the puzzle pieces fall into place.

She grins satisfactorily. “Yes, detective,” she says. “The way my sister talks about you, you’d think you were Sherlock Holmes. Say, do you think you can help me find an earring I lost about 10 years ago?”

He can surely imagine Denise discussing him with her sister more than his father has thought about him his entire life.

She holds out her hand.

“Anne Thompson. Most people call me Annie.”

“Greg House.”

Even her handshake exudes confidence.

The Thompsons share bright blue eyes but that’s about where the similarities end. Despite his initial objections, his introduction to Mr. Thompson earlier was not without its upsides. Denise is entirely her mother’s side with her round face and soft eyes. Anne, on the other hand, is all angles: her jawline sharp and eyes sharper. Her straight brown hair, forced into a neat set of curls, have loosened through the night.

“Come here often?” she asks. 

It’s a cool spring night in New Jersey, the sun having fully retreated for the evening. They’re staring out across Carnegie Lake.  A few stars manage to peek through the horrid cloud of light pollution to reflect on the water’s surface.

“To your cousin’s wedding? I may, depending on how this goes.”

He hears the flirtation in his voice. He doesn’t stop it.

She turns her attention to his face now, really taking him in. For a moment, he feels like a slide under a microscope.

“Oh?” she says, raising her drink, her attention drifting back to the coastline. “Think you’ll be invited back?”

“Second marriage’s a charm. Either ol’ Rachel–”

“Raquel.”

“–or Nick–“

“Not even close there, buddy. Tom.”

“–Tom, just like I said, will surely invite me back when this one falls apart.”

Her laugh carries across the lake. It drowns out the thump-thump-thump of the ska music that’s raging in the seizure-inducing tent.

“You tend to go to weddings where the happy couple ends in divorce? I think that makes you a bad luck charm.”

“No,” House says. “I think weddings tend to involve people who shouldn’t be married in the first place.”

She’s doing it again as she looks at him with a smug grin. His poor attempt at indifference doesn’t seem to convince her and now she’s pulling his strings. 

“An optimist, I see,” she muses. “You know, I’m not really a glass half-empty or glass half-full kind of girl.” She raises her own glass to inspect what’s left. 

“I’m a this-glass-needs-a-refill kind.”

She turns on her heels to find the bar. A request is at his lips that he doesn’t vocalize: “Wait.”

—

“Ah, Dr. House! Fancy seeing you here,” says Anne without missing a beat. Anne introduces him to the table of Denise-looking individuals and promptly forgets every single name. He won’t hold it against them for forgetting his name, either.

It’s the time of the evening where the old folks have shuffled back to the safety of their hotels while young people attempt to dance off their drunkenness. 

It’s then that he spots real Denise on the dance floor, plastered beyond belief. If anything, his respect for her has only increased.

“Hey,” says Anne, grabbing his arm. “Can you get Denise back to her hotel room?” His heart rate increases at her touch. 

“I shouldn’t be driving right now,” he replies, hoping that she won’t let go. She doesn’t. “But you can.”

There’s a glimmer in his eye as he says this. Her smile falters for a second.

“Very clever,” she says, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

—

Anne and House deliver Denise to her bedroom. Anne asks House to check for alcohol poisoning, just to be safe.

“Breathing’s normal. Heart rate,” he pauses, two fingers on her pulse. “Within normal range.”

“Skin’s not clammy? No blue skin or lips?” she asks.

“All fine. You’re sure you’re not the doctor here?” he says, amused.

She looks shaken slightly, but quickly says, “Oh, no. Not like that. Drunk friends in college and all that.”

It’s time for House to be delivered to his own hotel.

“I think you’re the first person that’s noticed,” she says, unsure whether to be impressed or disappointed. “What gave me away?”

House closes his eyes satisfactorily.

“It took me a minute,” he says. “You’re a good actress. Theater major?”

Anne laughs. “Shut up. It’s easy to act drunk when everyone else is.”

“Three glasses of wine in an hour,” he notes. “Didn’t stagger, didn’t fall, didn’t lose a single drop. Unusual, but very interesting.”

Her smile unfolds slowly. There’s a hint of pride in her gaze, the satisfaction that someone finally realized what she was doing.

“When you went to get another, I realized the alcohol I was smelling was my own.”

The engine hums along as his hotel comes within view. Anne puts the blinker on, parks, and shuts the vehicle off. She hands him his keys. Her fingers touch his palm and it’s electric. He’s already seen beyond what most people do.

Her heart pounds into her throat. She’s not always made the right choices, but right now, she doesn’t care. 

She pulls on his unloosened tie and plants her lips on his.

”Grape juice,” he says, pulling back with a smile. 

“Yes, Detective House,” she breathes, a smirk tugging at the edge of her lips, “Very observant.”

Chapter Text

Remy starts at the sound of her mother’s voice but her attention is drawn to House instead. This is the first time she’s seen him caught off-guard, his lips tightened in a thin line. It’s his disturbing placidity that makes something click together in her mind. House might’ve been able to see the lightbulb over her head if he hadn’t been staring at her mother.

“Anne Hadley. But most people call me Annie,” she says, sticking her hand out.

House makes his way over to her bedside, his expression unreadable.

“Dr. Greg House,” he says, a twinge of suspicion creeping into his voice. Incredibly cognizant, or completely gone off the deep end? The gleam in her eye seems to indicate otherwise. A subtle nod tells him I know.

“Remy, sweetheart, can you grab me a Pepsi?”

Remy sighs. “Coke, mom. You like Coke.”

“That’s what I meant,” she says quickly.

Remy scoffs at the obvious ploy to get her out of the room. She grabs the cash from her mom’s hand and storms out. They’ll be sorry. She’ll get the truth— one way or another.

“Mr. Hadley’s no longer in the picture, I hear,” he says. He’s watching her like a hawk. 

Anne raises her eyebrows. House’s eyes dart to the monitor. A storm roils below the surface. Her heart rate is well into the 120s now. She’s not going to give him the satisfaction of spelling it out. 

House paces the room while Anne watches him quietly from her bed. She’s losing control of her hands now. They’re shaking. When he turns away, she slips her hands beneath her legs to still them.

“Let me guess: a harmless marital spat. He gets angry, you get angier. Things get out of hand. You haven’t been yourself. Your emotions spiral out of control. Maybe you think, why not let it all out now?”

Anne straightens herself up in bed, stiff as a board. 

He’s at the edge of her bed now. 

Certainty's chiseled into his face.

“I know she’s my daughter.”

She releases a small breath. The faintest smile paints her face. 

“I always heard you were a great detective, Dr. House.”

—

No one notices the crack that Remy left in the door. The Coke threatens to freeze her hand, but her mind is elsewhere.

Something about House’s voice changes. Oddly… soft. Restrained.

“I know she’s my daughter.”

The can slips. 

Her heart stops.

She snatches it midair, barely.

In the commotion, she’s missed everything they’ve said. 

She squeezes her eyes shut. It’s a dream, it’s a dream, she tells herself. She pinches herself to make sure. Ouch!

It takes all her strength to set the can down.

She’s tempted to throw it right through the glass door, to let them know she knows. The chill moves up her hand, through her arm, creeping into her entire body.

She’s frozen.

She can’t stay. She won’t. 

Remy walks through the doors of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching hospital. She bolts, she’s caught.

Tears blur her vision. 

She nearly slams into an old woman with a walker. Sorry , she mutters quickly. Did she say that aloud, or in her head?

Her pace quickens. The hospital gets smaller with each passing glance.

She gets no more than a few hundred yards before the grief of her identity catches up to her. 

Shuddering sobs overwhelm her. 

She fights to catch her breath. 

Panic rises in her throat. 

Without her mother to steady her, she falls helplessly into its arms.

—

House doesn’t have time to savor the satisfaction of a mystery solved before he’s bolting out the hospital room. 

The vending machine sits down the hallway. Twenty second walk. A girl in a rush? Ten, tops. Fresh bill means no fumbling. Two seconds to vend, two more to grab. She should’ve been back by now.

The door wasn’t closed all the way.

The probability of eavesdropping: 100%.

Clever girl.

House hurries down the stairs as fast as his leg will carry him. 

“Thirteen-year-old girl. Brown straight hair. Five foot five. Find her,” he barks at a security guard. The man dutifully scurries away, radioing his crew as he goes.

Cuddy emerges from her office at the exact wrong moment. “House, what the hell is going—”

He ignores her. He can hear her scoff as he bursts out the front doors, the midday’s sun hitting him like a flashbang.

He must’ve dreamt it: her eyes, staring sweetly from the pillow beside him.

In the morning, she’s gone. 

He’s glad he doesn’t have to make niceties. No entertaining her anymore. Alone, at last.

There’s no trace she was even there.

So why was he hoping she’d stay?

House finds her beneath a tree on the outskirts of the parking lot. She peeks open one eye to confirm her suspicion, shutting it again dramatically. There’s no strength left in her to move. She defiantly chooses to stay.

House sits beside her, his back propped up against the bark. It takes him a minute to catch his breath. Not as young as he once was.

They sit together in silence. It’s not awkward. It’s meditative, almost, the way the breeze rustles the leaves above them, the shade cooling them down. They retreat to the safety of their own thoughts.

The truth was this: he had no idea.

One-night stands were one-night stands. A tacit agreement to have some fun and never speak again. This was the very foundation on which all one-night stands were predicated.

His one link to Anne, Denise, had transferred hospitals shortly after that night. Not his fault, he doesn’t think. Then again, he never asked. He wasn’t one to keep in touch.

Somewhere along the line Anne had married a man named Hadley. Convinced him Remy was his. Lie by omission? he wonders.

Hell, he didn’t know where she lived then. Didn’t know where she worked. Had no idea if she’d ever had a job in her life. He never asked. Never inquired further to Denise. 

She’s been exciting, but only for a night.

Remy sits up, refusing to face him. She pulls at the grass beneath her fingers, pulling sharply from the roots and throwing them onto the pavement.

“I’ve seen you before, you know,” she says. “She had this folder of newspaper clippings.” Each sentence ends with a rip of the grass. “ Dr. House. Dr. Greg House. Diagnostician Gregory House, ” she rattles off, her voice dripping in disdain.

House keeps quiet.

“She’s clever.” She pauses to gauge his reaction. He remains inert.

“But so am I,” she continues. “And she’s not as good at hiding things as she hoped.”

She squeezes the ball of grass in her hands before throwing it as far as she can.

House watches the inept security guards fail to locate the girl who is not two hundred feet from them. Their incompetence, for once, is a gift.

Finally, House speaks.

“What made you suspect?” His question is open-ended. He’s not sure where she’ll take it, if she chooses to answer at all.

“Dad’s brown eyes.” She shoots him a look as though daring him to say something about recessive gene carriers. House holds his pedantic tongue.

“I kept looking in the mirror hoping to see any of him in myself. I never did. Not in looks. Not in behavior. I couldn’t have been more different than him if I tried.”

House nods, slowly.

“I found the folder by accident,” she adds. “I was looking for a hair tie or something, I don’t know. It was shoved behind her desk.”

There’s an arc around her of dirt now, the grass having been plucked out in its entirety. She brushes her hands off on her pants and folds them neatly in her lap.

“Could’ve been she wanted to find a doctor to diagnose her,” House suggests. He throws this in to see what she’ll say.

“Sure. But the oldest clipping was dated 1995, long before any symptoms appeared.”

House smiles despite himself.

“I worked with Denise,” he offers. “Adults have many reasons to keep secrets.”

“I know,” she shoots back. “But I was right, wasn’t I? I didn’t have all the pieces. I still put it together.”

She was right. And that was the worst part.

Chapter Text

Security catches up to them and brings her back to her mother. 

House walks to Wilson’s office, shaken.

Wilson looks up from his desk.

“I fucked up,” House mutters, collapsing into a chair.

A bewildered Wilson stares back at him. House is not one to readily admit fault. For anything.

“Well?” prompts Wilson.

House’s gaze meanders around the office before finding its way back to Wilson. “The kid’s mine,” he says.

“What?” Wilson laughs.

House scratches his forehead, unable to meet his eyes.

“The kid’s mine,” he repeats.

Wilson’s eyes go wide.

“No, no, no,” Wilson says, wagging his finger at him. “We’re not doing this.”

House shoots him a glare.

“She’s mine.”

No facetiousness behind the eyes.

Wilson stares back. The gears are turning.

“You have a daughter? ” Wilson asks in disbelief. There’s no levity in House’s voice. The way House’s jaw clenches —the truth sinks in. “Holy shit. You have a daughter.”

“Pending paternity test,” House replies, rubbing his temples. “But I think that conclusion’s foregone.”

“You’re a father?” Wilson repeats, looking for someone to tell him this was all a prank. “You’re not joking?”

House closes his eyes, his patience wearing thin. “No,” he says. “Swear to God, Wilson, this is not a fucking joke.”

Wilson just stares at him. “Jesus, you’re serious.”

His eyes widen. It snaps into place. “Not your patient’s daughter.”

House throws his hands up. “Took you that long?”

“What?” says Wilson with indignation.

“She’s smart. Blue eyes. My nose. Did I mention she was smart?”

Wilson is unimpressed. “Every smart kid that exists with blue eyes is your child, then?”

“Look, being a father can be as difficult as raising a child from day one or as easy as giving a sperm donation. I think we know which camp I’m in.”

Wilson exhales, the concern on his face palpable. “What are you going to do?” 

“Marry the mom. Be one big old happy family,” says House sardonically. Wilson’s expression darkens.

“Do not fuck this kid’s life up,” Wilson says pointedly.

House frowns. “You don’t think I know that?”

“Sometimes…” Wilson mutters. “I really wonder.”

House looks away from Wilson’s pathetic expression of pity. He grabs his cane to pace the room. Raucous laughter from a group of nurses filters through the closed door. He shoots it a glare.

“You’re acting like there’s a playbook for this,” snaps House. 

“I’m not saying there is. I’m asking if you want to be in her life.”

“Fucked-up dads make fucked-up kids,” House responds. “I’m doing her a favor, here.”

Wilson sighs, frustrated by the deflection. He tries again: “Do you want to be in her life?”

House stares at the floor. The view from the corner he’s backed himself into is bleak. He can’t think— he doesn’t want to think about the implications of it all right now.

“I don’t know,” House says finally. “That’s not up to me, is it?”

“It might be,” says Wilson. His tone is grave. “You’re not even sure what her mother has.”

“For fuck’s sake,” says House. Wilson’s righteousness is grating on him now. “The state isn’t handing her to me, she’s already got a legal father!”

His outburst causes Wilson to sink back into his chair. 

House’s sharp breaths fill the silence between them. 

“Don’t act like you’d know what to do,” says House.

Wilson splutters. “I— I— I’d like to think—”

“Yeah,” says House, the sharpness of his tongue cutting into Wilson’s words. “You like to think . You don’t know the reality.”

“You’re afraid.” Wilson sees it now. If House is aware, he’s hiding it well.

“I get it,” Wilson says. “You’re afraid she’ll hate you the way you hate your own father.”

When House storms out of the office, he doesn’t let Wilson see the hurt in his eyes.

Wilson lets him leave. 

He returns to his stack of paperwork but finds the words blurring into alphabet soup. 

House? A daughter?

It’s too foreign to accept as reality. It’s absurd, really.

If this is some elaborate joke, Wilson’s going to kill him. The sinking feeling in his chest tells him it’s not.

He closes his eyes and sighs. He should find him. Talk to him again. 

Wilson walks through Princeton-Plainsboro, peering into rooms, scanning through corridors. But he knows if House doesn’t want to be found, he won’t.

Father?

Father was a door in the wall he couldn’t contort himself to fit through.

House shakes himself off from the word.

Sperm donor.

More precise, more accurate.

He hides from the world with the coma patients.

For a brief moment, he wishes he was one of them.

Foreman really doesn’t have the time to be dealing with melodrama today. “Where’s House?” 

“I don’t know,” replies Wilson without looking up. 

Foreman watches him flip the same sheet of paper over and over again. With a sigh, Foreman shoots Wilson a look that says he doesn’t buy it.

Cuddy emerges through the door a second later with the same question.

“Where’s House?” she asks coldly.

“You guys auditioning for the same part?” Wilson asks with exasperation.

Cuddy looks at Foreman, mildly surprised she didn’t realize he was already there.

“Do you know where House is?” she asks Foreman.

“No, why do you think I’m here?”

Cuddy sighs and crosses her arms. “I don’t care who finds him. Just get him back on the case. Got it?”

The heels of her stilettos click authoritatively on the hospital’s tiled floors.

“He’s… somewhere,” Wilson mutters. “He’ll make himself known when he wants to be.”

Foreman notices the dodge but makes no mention of it. Wilson feels himself being backed into a corner regardless.

“Just— just go help your patient,” Wilson says with a wave.

“House is MIA,” says Foreman, tossing the folder down. “Until he returns to reality, I’m taking charge.”

Chase scoffs. “He’s not dead now, is he?”

“Maybe,” Foreman shrugs, and returns his attention to the board. “We need to rule out Parkinson’s. Cameron, start her on a dopamine trial and ease up on the hydroxyzine.”

“What’s going on with House?” Cameron asks. “Shouldn’t we—” 

Foreman cuts her off.

“We’re wasting daylight,” Foreman says. “We need to keep this case moving.”

“But he’s never acted like this before—” she tries again, but Foreman remains steadfast. A glance at Chase reveals he’s not paying attention.

“I was thinking,” says Chase, flitting through a textbook. “Hashimoto’s Encephalopathy. Explains the tremor, the mood changes. Could be one of the weirder presentations.”

Foreman rubs his chin, considering. “Run the thyroid function tests again.”

Cameron sits up a bit straighter at this. “Might be. She’d respond to corticosteroids pretty quickly. We haven’t tried that yet.” She looks to Foreman for approval.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” chides Foreman.

Cameron’s smile drops. She grabs her coffee and retreats out the door, not entirely satisfied. Chase follows quickly behind.

Remy stares at her mother, asleep in her hospital bed. She feels like a glass full to the brim with anger, loneliness, hope—one more drop and she’ll overflow.

Chase arrives first, drawing a second blood sample. Cameron follows soon after, checking IV levels and lowering the hydroxyzine concentration. Every move of Cameron’s is met with Remy’s quiet suspicion. When Cameron injects a new drug into the IV, Remy breaks her silence.

“What’s that?” Remy asks.

“It’s a dopamine trial,” replies Cameron gently. “If she responds well, we’ll have our answer.”

Remy notes that Cameron doesn’t say what the answer would be. Remy’s chest tightens. A quiet rage consumes her. 

She resents being babied. Adults pretend like thirteen is too young to realize how the world works. 

“You guys are thinking Parkinson’s,” she says in a huff. “I know what dopamine means. Just say it.”

Cameron’s eyes widen briefly, but quickly regains composure. Chase looks quietly impressed. 

“Yes, we are,” Chase admits openly. “We’re also re-running thyroid function tests.”

Remy nods. She’s taken aback by his honesty.

“Why?” she asks, her tone softening.

“Suspected Hashimoto’s encephalopathy,” explains Chase. “Brain inflammation caused by an autoimmune thyroid disease.”

Remy backs down, satisfied with his answers.

Behind their conversation is the heart monitor that beeps at a steady rhythm. At first, Remy was annoyed at its ever-present beat. Especially irritated when it came to falling asleep. Now, it’s the background noise to this hectic life she’s stepped into. 

A rhythmic reminder that her mother is still alive.

Remy feels like she has space to breathe. All is well—for now.

Then, her mother starts coughing. Remy comes to her mother’s bedside and grabs her hand. 

Remy does what her mother always did to her when she got sick: back of the palm to the forehead, checking her temperature.

“She’s burning up,” Remy says, panic rising sharply in her voice. 

Anne’s face is pale, her breaths shallow. All three of them turn to the monitor and watch her oxygen saturation drop.

House’s beeper takes him out of his reverie.

He still has a patient to diagnose. He can ponder life’s greatest questions later.

His dear friends, the coma patients, will surely miss him.

“Welcome back,” says Foreman as House opens his office door. “Glad you remembered you still have a patient to treat.”

“Glad you remembered to be a pain in my ass,” House retorts. His combativeness is dialed up. He’s more on edge than usual.

“Aspiration pneumonia?” he says, snatching the film from Cameron and shoving it into the illuminator.

“Chest X-ray shows infiltrates in the right lower lobe,” says Cameron. “White count is elevated.”

“Could be Parkinson’s, MS, ALS or Huntington’s causing dysphagia,” adds Chase. “But we’ve already ruled out MS.”

“While you were gone,” Foreman says with a jab, “we ruled out HE. TSH and T4 are normal. No antibody elevation.”

“Wow,” says House with a wry laugh. “What do you need me for?”

Cameron goes quiet. Chase finds something quite interesting on the wall. 

“What?”

“She’s refusing genetic testing,” Foreman says. “Won’t sign the consent forms.”

“Can’t, or won’t?” asks House.

“We’ve told her it would help us,” Cameron offers.

It’s taken him fourteen years to realize that he shouldn’t underestimate Anne Hadley.

“What’s she so afraid of?” he mutters.

Cameron throws open House’s office door without knocking.

“What the hell is going on?” she demands, her arms crossed, staring daggers at him.

“Well,” House smirks, looking up from his crossword. “Thinking of annoyance: 4 letters. Pest, maybe?”

Cameron snatches the book from him. House throws his hands up in mock innocence.

“No,” she says. “I mean, what the hell is wrong with you? You’re avoiding her.”

“I avoid a lot of patients,” House says coolly, leaning back into his chair. “I’m not really a people person.”

Cameron presses on.

“You’ve been avoiding her daughter, too,” she says, stepping forward. “She’s bright. Notices things. Normally you’d like that.”

His gaze hardens. He steps back at her intrusion.

“I know. Don’t like kids.”

“What is it?” she presses. “You don’t want Anne to have ALS? You’ll only take the solvable puzzles? Curable patients?”

House doesn’t betray a hint of emotion.

“Ah, would be a bummer though, wouldn’t it?”

“Stop deflecting.”

“Alright,” he says, sucking in some air. He takes a beat, exhaling deeply. 

“I had sex with her.”

It lands like a joke, but Cameron’s not laughing. Neither is he.

Something about his tone that gives her pause. House is known for his theatrics, but this doesn’t feel like theater. Not entirely. Everybody lies— especially House. But sometimes, the truth makes the best disguise.

He doesn’t give her time to process it. House snatches his crosswords back, door swinging behind him with a sharp crack.

Cameron’s scowl hardens. “This isn’t a game, House!”

The cafeteria tray hits the table with the sharp thwack.

Remy, pleased with the sound, sits across from House. He doesn’t hide his annoyance which only delights her further.

She carries on eating like she’s not invading his personal space. She seems to be entirely unbothered at all.

“What are you doing?” he says, dropping his fork.

“Keeping tabs,” she says. “Making sure you come back, that’s all.”

She flashes him a grin. Pure innocence.

Anne’s easier to grapple with when she’s just another patient. He doesn’t look back at his one-night stands through a lens of gross sentimentality. This should be no exception.

She was stunning then. She still was.

She came into his life with a mystery and left as one, too. She was an idea in his mind, briefly materialized, that vanished without a trace.

He had never called. She knew better than to leave a number. So did he.

When Denise transferred hospitals to the West Coast, he didn’t talk to her again. Never asked how she was doing, what she was up to, how the new job was treating her. He certainly didn’t ask about her sister. He couldn’t be sure Anne had mentioned him at all.

The nostalgia is blinding him. He’s thought about that night a lot: her flirtation, her deception, the mutual keeping each other at arm’s length. The less she gave, the more he wanted— the more he knew he shouldn’t.

She’s not a memory now. She’s real. She’s his patient. She’s the mother of his daughter.

He walks in with a confidence his mind cannot match. He’s not sure what he’s going to say before he says it.

Her daughter—

No. Our daughter.

He shakes this thought off.

Her daughter lies in bed next to her, Remy’s head leaning on Anne’s shoulder. Remy’s hands are steadying Anne’s. It’s a scene that takes a minute to realize what’s wrong: their roles should be reversed.

Remy looks up at the intrusion but doesn’t flinch, doesn’t speak. She curls tighter against her mother. There’s no doubt in House’s mind Remy would take a bullet for her mom.

“So,” House says. A fire burns brightly within him. He wants to rage at her, to tell her she’s making a huge mistake. You’re dying .  When he opens his mouth, his rage is extinguished.

His tone is lighter than what he feels. He lays out her decision before her.

“Let’s be clear: you’re refusing genetic testing.”

The curtain is open, the stage is set. House watches from the audience: can she still sell the lie?

She nods, shakily. It’s not nerves.

Righteous anger bubbles up within him and he can’t contain his disdain. “So why are you wasting our time?”

Her right hand, free of Remy’s grip, dance-like on the blanket. She tries to move it underneath her, but House has already noticed. 

He feels a pang of regret.

“You don’t want it,” he says, his heart dropping. “Because you already know.”

“Know what?” asks Remy, tears already in her eyes. On her face is an expression of ultimate betrayal.

House uses the beat to retrieve Remy’s backpack. He pulls out the neurology textbook. Its top edge is peppered with color-coded tabs she’s marked for review.

When his first suspicion is confirmed, it comes with no satisfaction.

Index— H. He flips to the correct page.

When his second suspicion is confirmed, he’s filled with dread.

“Mom?” Remy shakes her mother’s arm, but Anne won’t look her in the eyes.

House turns the textbook around for them to see. Anne braces for impact.

“Anne Thompson,” he says, pointing to a long erased name in the top right corner of the book. 

Anne buries her head in her hands, the shame of confrontation hitting her like a truck.

“When Remy found this, you’d already erased your name. Probably passed it off as Denise's if she asked,” he says.

Remy is frozen, eyes wet, fixated on House.

“You wanted to understand why your mom killed herself. You wanted to diagnose her from beyond the grave.”

“Of course I did,” Anne says, her voice breaking.

“You were in residency.”

“Yes,” she whispers.

“Then, the symptoms started. You finally understood,” House says, softer now.

Anne nods, a quiet sob escaping her lips. 

“You’ve been throwing us curveballs the entire time. The blurry MRI wasn’t because you were nervous,” he says. “It was cleverness. Careful sabotage from a trained professional.”

He’s done it for the second time in her life: seen straight through her. Her web of lies and deception comes crashing down in front of her.

He flips to the back of the textbook where a single pink sticky note remains.

He peels it off and flips to page 287. Huntington’s chorea.

Then, slowly, he presses the note back onto the ghost of its own adhesive.

“Mom?” repeats Remy, her voice feeble. 

Remy stares at the page she’s flipped past hundreds of times.

The answer hidden in plain sight. 

Chapter Text

Anne signs the forms. She won’t for Remy.

House retreats to his office and slams the door on the world.

When Chase passes by, he catches House’s silhouette through the blinds. House has never reacted this way to a patient. Chase knows not to linger.

Detachment is what makes his profession bearable. It’s one of the easiest parts of the job. Forget the last patient and move to the next. Celebrate nothing, grieve nothing.

Feel nothing.

He can’t detach from this. He’s sinking deeper into grief faster than he can dissociate.

By evening, he’s back home.

House stares at his bedroom ceiling. Sleep won’t come tonight. Of course it won’t.

Should he have cared more, back then? She was… 

He searches in his mind. 

Enigmatic. 

A puzzle not meant to be solved.

Would he have wanted to know?

No.

He knows this much: if he’d had a say, Remy wouldn’t exist.

He’s being selfish. It’s Remy that has everything to lose.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The raps at the door are short, quick, and familiar.

House kills the TV and limps toward the door to investigate. He knows that rhythm.

A disheveled, unshaven, exhausted House opens the door. A girl of thirteen stands on the stoop, a purple backpack on her back. In her eyes, he sees his own grief, mirrored.

She steps forward and wraps her arms around him.

His body stiffens. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.

His voice is hoarse from underuse. 

“I can’t cure her.”

She holds him tighter now. 

He doesn’t let go.

When she finally pulls back, she wipes the tears from her face. 

“I know. But you tried.”

—

Remy stays a while. 

She sits at the kitchen island. Her foot doesn’t tap the barstool anymore.

He gives her a glass of water and a coveted bowl of ice cream. He steals some for himself, too.

The gears are running in her mind, his mind. They say nothing. The quiet that falls between them should be uncomfortable. It isn’t.

She asks about his guitar. He shows her a few chords, how to put her fingers on the frets, how to use a pick. 

He asks about the books in her backpack. Summer reading, she says. But she’s more interested in the music.

They sit down at the piano.

House teaches her Chopsticks.

“House, don’t,” Wilson says.

“You’re lecturing me? I’m the parent here.”

In Wilson sighs and prays silently for strength. 

The oncologist paces House’s apartment, unable to sit for more than a few seconds. 

“Do not test her without her mother’s consent,” Wilson repeats.

House looks at him, deadly serious. “She’s my daughter, too,” he replies with quiet restraint.

“No,” says Wilson, shaking his head. “She’s not some kid most of the time and your daughter when it’s convenient.”

“Look, I—” he says. “I wasn’t going to send it in yet.”

Wilson’s expression doesn’t change. He’s dealt with House’s audacity enough.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I’m not pissing off mom before establishing paternity,” House says.

Wilson spins on his heel, ears perked, frozen mid-step.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

A grin grows on Wilson’s face.

“So,” he says triumphantly. “You do want to be in her life.”

House grabs his cane and walks quickly into the kitchen. Wilson’s faster.

“She’s been abandoned by one parent. She’s about to lose another,” he says, brushing Wilson aside to get a glass. “Rule of threes is cute and all. A third parent bailing? Not a great punchline.”

Wilson absorbs that information. He leans back onto the counter, hand over mouth. 

“Jesus.”

“I know.”

Those thoughts weigh on his chest at night, suffocating him. When her mother’s gone, who will she have left?

There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. 

“This isn’t a pity thing, is it?” 

House shoots him a look.

“No,” he says. “Not a big believer in the concept.” House brandishes the cane in Wilson’s direction.

Wilson scratches the back of his head.

“My hand’s forced here,” continues House. There’s no bitterness in his voice, only sorrow. “If I wanted to walk, I couldn't. She’d have no one left.”

Wilson hesitates. “You would want to walk?” 

“Maybe.” His voice is flat, stripped of sarcasm. “How was I supposed to know she existed?”

Wilson watches him deflate. 

“I never got a Happy Father’s Day card.” Even a joke can’t lighten the mood. His mouth pulls flat in a grimace.

Wilson sighs. “Whatever you say, you like her.”

House doesn’t reply. Doesn’t make eye contact. Wilson accepts silence as confirmation.

“What are you going to do?”

It’s a repeat question, but still valid. 

“I need to get her tested—“

“House—”

“—to establish paternity,” he finishes. He gives a small smirk. “You really should let people finish their sentences. Context is key.”

For once, Wilson doesn’t argue. For once, he dares himself to have a bit of hope.

Anne stares at herself in the mirror. Greasy, disheveled hair with flecks of gray. Eye bags. Fine lines. 

This is about the oldest she’ll ever be. She’s sorry for every attempt she’s made to look younger.

She takes a shower, attempts to wash away the hospital. It won’t wash away the truth.

Her hands aren’t steady, neither are her legs. She sits down like a child, water showering her.

Remy hears the clatter of falling bottles. She’s heard it many times before.

What’s different is the sound beneath the water: her mother’s sobs—soft and breaking.

Knock. Knock.

Anne opens the door, shocked at who awaits her. She takes a step back in disbelief.

“Delivery,” House says, gesturing Remy inside. Anne kisses her daughter’s head as Remy slips back inside.

“You’ve caught me on a good day,” says Anne. A reluctant smile begins to form. “Would you like to come in?”

“No, no,” he says. “We better take this outside.”

—

The diner off main street bustles with the rhythm of a hungry lunch crowd. The scent of coffee, grease, and body odor floats through the air. Waitresses in yellow uniforms stay busy as bees, flying from one table to the next. 

House and Anne are seated in a back corner booth. When the waitress comes to check on them, she feels like she’s intruding on something, and hurries to leave them be.

“I like you better when you’re not my doctor.” The kindness in her smile finally reaches her eyes.

“Believe me, I thought our original arrangement was ideal.”

The waitress places two cups of water down and doesn’t linger.

“So, is this a date?” asks Anne, taking a sip. As she sets the cup down, her tremor returns. She doesn’t hide it this time, only dares him to notice.

He stares out the window, contemplating what to say next. For once, he thinks before he speaks. He sets aside the “Do I look like a fruit?” and “Not if it doesn’t end in sex” comments his instincts want him to throw out and returns to the subject at hand.

“We need to talk about Remy,” he says. 

Anne nods, breaking eye contact.

She knows what this is about. Right now, it’s not about paternity, legalities, or Anne’s future. It’s Remy’s future that hangs in the balance.

Anne is about to say something when—

“What can I get you guys?”

The waitress looks expectantly, pen in hand. House orders for them both. There’s tacit agreement that neither are particularly hungry.

“You need to get her tested,” House says. “She needs to know.”

Anne’s expression darkens. “No,” she states simply.

“It’s her choice.”

“She can make it for herself when I’m six feet under.”

House closes his eyes.  

Anne’s fingers tap, dancing on the table top. Choreiform movements, House thinks. She appears to hide it, then stops herself. She won’t hide any longer.

“It’s you who wants to know,” she says.

“Yes,” House says. “Of course I do.”

Her eyes are boring into him now. House doesn’t look away.

“You feel a sense of guilt,” she says, her eyes narrowing.

House bristles.

“You have no idea what I feel.”

She’s shaking her head now. There’s no doubt in her mind she’s right about this. She feels it more acutely than he does. 

“Fine, if you won’t admit to it,” she says. She gives a mirthless laugh. “Then I will. I feel guilty.”

House’s lips form a tight line.

“Ignorance is no protection from consequences,” he says. 

“Ain’t that the fucking truth.”

Around them, voices murmur with life’s banalities.

A waitress arrives with the food, sizzling hot.

“You know I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Test her behind my back?” she interjects. “I’m well aware. Doesn’t change my opinion.”

“Have you even asked—”

“Have you?” Her words are biting. 

House remains firm, his expression unchanged.

“Right now, she’s sick and not sick. Schroëdinger’s Huntington’s,” he replies. “And you’d rather not open that box.”

Rage bubbles in her chest, ready to burst. He can spare the lectures for his med students.

“She doesn’t need to know. She needs to live her life as a normal thirteen year old.”

“Yeah,” House laughs wryly, the bitterness in his voice poorly restrained. “Caring for a disabled mother is just what I’d call a teenager’s dream.”

House knows she can’t leave. He drove her here.

“We all know how not knowing worked out for you,” he mutters. 

Anne seethes. “Don’t you fucking dare.” She glances at the diner’s patrons, happily slurping down soda and greasy burgers, keeping her voice low. 

It’s a good day today, she reminds herself. She can hold her emotions in check, stop herself from screaming. Well, she thinks— at least while she’s in public.

House’s expression hardens.

“You expect her to make the same choices as you,” he says. “She can’t find out. That way, you don’t have to know. Your hands are clean.”

Anne moves pasta around on her plate. The food is getting colder by the minute. Her appetite has vanished.

“I’m protecting her—” she starts.

“You think you are.” His voice is softer now, somber.

She looks up at this.

“The cards are dealt,” he says. “Waiting won’t change the hand. It’s time, Schröedinger. Open the box.”

—

The waitress clears two mostly-full plates from the table.

House leaves her a twenty for her discretion.

She’s faltering now, can’t hold it together like she used to. House helps her into the car.

—

“You’re not as opaque as you seem,” says Anne. She watches him from the passenger’s seat as he pulls into a spot. They both know they’re not done with this conversation yet.

“Flesh isn’t usually transparent.”

She laughs.

“You’re funny,” she says. There’s a hint of admiration in her voice. “Probably why I slept with you. Low hanging fruit and all.”

He likes her laugh more than he should.

“You never asked why I didn’t tell you,” she says, cocking her head in amusement. “You’re probably right, whatever you think.” She’s goading him into spilling his side of the story.

House sucks in his teeth. He knows, but confirmation— that’s what matters.

“Alright,” he says, turning off the ignition. The only sounds they hear are the muffled chirps of crickets in the night.

The story comes together in his mind. He doesn’t just think this is how it played out, he knows. He needs to confirm it, anyway.

“No one wants to raise a kid with their one-night stand.”

Anne considers that, then nods. “Well, sure. That’s a piece of furniture.”

House cracks. “You’re funny.”

Anne raises her eyebrows in expectation. “Well, continue,” she says.

“You found a guy. Probably suggested that the kid was his.”

“Hmm,” she says, neither confirming nor denying.

“What?” he asks.

“He knew.”

Shock registers on House’s face.

“I’m glad I can still surprise you.”

“Wait,” House blinks, trying to square it. “He knew?”

She nods. “Made it clear from the start.”

“So why did he leave?”

Her expression is full to the brim with satisfaction. She lets the question hang in the air, biding her time before he comes begging for answers.

“Some guys leave their bona fide kids too, you know.”

“Boy, do I.”

“He had a job. Wanted a family. He was stability. You were a flight risk.”

House nods. No argument from him.

“Knew him from high school,” she adds. “Always had a thing for me. I might’ve used that to my advantage.” She swallows her shame.

“He finally figures out he loves you more than you love him.”

“That, and the drinking. Had a construction business he couldn’t keep up with. In the end, it was his real baby. Began drinking. Everything spiraled.”

Anne looks out the window, turning away from him.

“You of all people know how much I abhor drinking,” she says with a pained smile. 

The rest falls in place.

“But you stayed. Longer than you wanted. You needed his income.”

“Yes.”

“Never thought the doctor would have something to offer?” His words come out more defensive than he expects.

Anne exhales sharply.

“I wasn’t going to show up at your door with an eight-year-old,” she explains. “I didn’t need to introduce Remy to someone who’d end up walking out.”

This stings. It stings more knowing she’s probably right.

“Fathers can leave. Mothers don’t.”

She looks at him again. Her voice is composed, but her tears fall hot and fast.

“I’m sorry,” says House quietly.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. The only thing I’m sure of is my daughter.”

She wipes away her tears. He can’t watch her.

“If it’s not too late,” he offers, “maybe I can make some amends.”

She looks at him suspiciously.

“Caretaker for you, paid for by me. New apartment. I’ll take Remy on the days when it’s too much.”

“I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity. Call it child support. With interest.”

She finds something in his eyes she’s never noticed before. The realization knocks the wind out of her. They’re her daughter’s eyes.

They shake on it.

 “You’re not who I thought you were,” he says.

“Well, neither are you.”

Anne smiles. She opens the car door, one foot out.

She stops. Looks back at him. Plants a kiss on his cheek. 

She’s gone before he realizes what happened.

Chapter Text

At fourteen, she sits at the table with her dad’s team. They’re bickering about a case. Remy mostly tunes it out, absorbed in a teen celebrity gossip magazine.

House calls out to her.

“Remy,” he says. “Tell Dr. Chase why it’s not lupus.”

She looks up, startled. “Uh… Negative ANA? Doesn’t explain the rash?”

“See?” House says, pride flickering in his eyes. “Gets it from her dad.”

Chase rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I always wanted a House-lite.”

“Hey,” says House, mock offended. “It’s bring-your daughter-to-work day.”

“It’s been bring-your daughter-to-work month,” mutters Foreman.

“Are you accusing me of nepotism?”

Remy smirks from behind her magazine.

She’s sixteen when she calls him dad for the first time. It’s an accident. It slips out when she asks him to close her bedroom door. 

Thanks, dad.

She sits back in bed, turns off the light. 

His uneven footsteps stop. 

She goes still. 

A few moments pass. Footsteps resume.

A smile cracks on his face.

He hates to admit it, but he liked the sound of it.

She was seventeen when her mother died. House held one hand. She held the other.

Remy graduates high school on her eighteenth birthday. When she walks the stage, she waves to her dad in the audience. Something catches in his chest—pride, sharp and unfamiliar. It’s not about him, for once.

She knows where she’s going next. 

Off to Princeton.

Twenty. Two decades old. 

It’s the arbitrary milestone that she set when she decided she wanted— needed to know.

House gives her the test results. They’ve sat in his safe, unopened but not forgotten, for seven years.

They open it together.

The Princeton valedictorian is twenty-one when she graduates. The four years she’s been away (barring her trips home) remind him of life as it was before. Empty. Hollow.

The two-bedroom condo he bought shortly after she arrived is full of her presence. A hand-crocheted blanket is on the couch. Her hair ties are everywhere. 

The fridge is covered in old report cards, magnets from their roadtrips, too many photos of them to count. Her bedroom is still purple, walls and sheets to match. Her backup violin in the corner. The primary one’s in her apartment.

He likes it in here. It reminds him of her.

On her desk is a card addressed to him.

Happy Father’s Day, it reads, to the best second father a girl could ask for.

Hope we have many more.

Love,

Remy

Her last graduation is from med school. She’s twenty-eight, now officially in House’s life longer than she hasn’t.

House thinks about how his own father never really cared about his achievements. Looking at his own daughter, he can’t imagine what kind of person could be so cruel.

“Congratulations, Dr. House,” he says, beaming. He pulls her into a hug.

Remy is bashful. 

“Please,” she says. “Dr. House is my father. Call me Remy.”

Chapter Text

When House walks into the music store, he’s expecting to spend a pretty penny on a new amp. He’s not expecting to drop that same amount of money on a new violin. He ends up doing it anyway.

It’s not her birthday, it’s not Christmas. He buys it because he wants to see her reaction. When she opens the surprise, the look on her face is worth it.

—

She’s fourteen, she’s learning. She only got the thing a week ago. But it sounds like she’s skinning a cat right now, and he’s losing his mind.

He drops her off at Wilson’s to practice. He has a… thing he needs to go to tonight.

Remy comes home that night, excitedly announcing that Wilson found her a violin teacher.

Wow, he thinks, this plan worked even better than intended.

“House,” says Cuddy. “This hospital isn’t a daycare.”

House looks incredulous. “Daycare? She’s fifteen!”

“She is not a doctor—“

“Yet!”

“—she cannot be listening in on private medical information.” She glares at him sternly over the papers on her desk.

“She promises not to tell?” he suggests.

“You know what,” she says, sitting up straighter as an idea dawns on her. “She can volunteer a few hours a week. Gets her out of your office for a while, I get an extra volunteer.” She smiles.

“Call her my intern.”

“She’s fifteen!”

“What? So’s Doogie Howser!”

Cuddy looks unamused.

“Just let her volunteer,” she sighs. “I know she’d like it.”

“Fine,” he agrees. “But if I get a whiff that she’s turning into Cuddy Jr.—”

“Just do it. And close my door.”

—

Cuddy has always been vaguely suspicious of her, but Remy’s volunteer work softens her in Cuddy’s eyes. 

She likes playing with the kids in the cancer ward the most. The parents are immensely grateful. She’s happy to offer comfort during the most difficult time of their lives.

There’s a newfound sense of freedom, too. People know her not for her relation to House, but through her own merit.

She should hate it here. It’s cold, sterile, clinical. That’s only if you look surface level, she thinks. There’s humanity everywhere. You just have to know where to look.

She’s sixteen and behind the wheel of House’s car. He’s in the passenger’s seat. Foreman, Chase, and Cameron are unamused, packed in the back.

“Can we go back inside?” asks Foreman.

“Inside?” House turns around. “We’ve barely left the parking lot!”

“Yeah but—“

“Oh, she’s not going to kill us,” House says. “There are four doctors in here.”

House orchestrates both her drive and the on-the-go diagnosing that’s happening in the back.

Remy stops a little too forcefully at the sign and the doctors jerk forward.

“Maybe she is trying to kill us, Foreman,” House remarks. Remy flushes red but shakes it off. “Sorry,” she says, mostly to the team.

The rest of the drive is smooth sailing. They’re so focused on the case, they barely realize they’re being driven around.

When Remy returns to the hospital, House points to an open parallel parking spot near the front. Everyone’s staring at her.

The pressure’s on. She nails it, first try. Absolutely textbook.

“I’ve been looking for you,” House says, walking into Wilson’s office. Wilson throws his hands up in exasperation. House points his cane at him. “Not you,” he says. “You.”

Remy looks up from her homework, one brow raised.

House turns on Wilson. “She took my car keys,” he says.

“She’s your probation officer now?” asks Wilson.

House rolls his eyes.

“No, I didn’t,” she says coolly, returning to her essay.

“Cuddy put you up to it,” he accuses.

Remy continues writing.

House mutters something under his breath and plods off.

“She said you needed 4 more clinic hours,”  Remy calls out after him.

Wilson takes the keys from his pocket and throws them to Remy with a wink.

She’s up four to two.

Focus .

He’s quick. Too quick.

Chase shoots the ball with precision. Remy can’t move her rod fast enough. Thunk. The foosball lands in her goal.

Fuck!

Half of the break room cheers. The other half groans.

Four to three.

It’s okay. There’s still time to make up the loss. She exhales, wipes her sweaty palms on her jeans. Focus.

She drops the ball in for the next round. The room falls silent.

She fights, but Chase fights harder. Her offense is strong. His is stronger. The ball slips past her defensive line and sinks into the goal.

“Focus, Remy,” Wilson calls. He’s getting nervous now— he’s got forty bucks on this game.

It’s over.

Chase throws his hands up in victory. 

The resident foosball champion has been defeated.

Bet winnings are doled out throughout the room. Wilson hands House a wad of cash.

House slips it in his pocket with a smirk.

“Wait, were you guys hustling me, or did you really bet against her?” Wilson asks.

“Figured she was due for a loss,” House says.

Remy gives Chase a firm handshake. “Good game.”

The first time House watches his soaps on the couch, she ignores him. She doesn’t get what’s so fascinating.

The second time, she stands in the hallway, watching the TV from afar. She tells herself she’s not interested and retreats to her room. She’s thirteen, there’s more important things to be doing.

Usually, she moves to her bed when House takes residence on the couch. This time, she stays. She pretends to be reading her book. House notices her eyes peeking over the pages, thoroughly entertained.

—

“Hey!” says the high school senior from her room. “That better not be what I think it is.”

“What?” House yells back, not pausing the recording of the latest General Hospital.

Remy groans. The selective hearing of that man.

“You said you were going to wait!” she calls.

She emerges from her bedroom to stand in front of the TV. 

“You’re blocking my view,” he says, unamused. 

“You said you were going to wait for me,” she repeats.

“Everybody lies,” he says. 

He grabs his cane, attempting to nudge her out of the way.

“Fine,” she says. “In this episode, Nurse Hardy—“

“Hey!” He shoots her a look of betrayal.

She smirks. “I knew you wouldn’t wait for me, so I didn’t either.”