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House was in a good mood.
Which, statistically speaking, meant something terrible was about to happen.
He stretched his leg across the desk and bit into a pop-tart, ignoring both the crumbs falling onto patient files and the dull protest from his thigh. Pain was background noise. Victory, however, had to be savoured.
Masters was gone.
After weeks of negotiation, blackmail-adjacent bargaining, and an unacceptable number of promised clinic hours, Cuddy had finally reassigned her. Different department. Different problem. No longer his.
Problem solved.
As much as he loved his girlfriend, her administrator brain remained deeply committed to ruining his life. Efficiently. Attractively. Persistently.
Still, he’d won.
Masters and her relentless morality and terrifying belief that rules actually mattered were now someone else’s responsibility. She’d thrive wherever Cuddy dumped her. Pediatrics, probably. Somewhere optimism went to die slowly.
House took another bite.
It wasn’t personal.
She just didn’t fit.
That was all.
He ignored the quieter part of his brain pointing out that she had, in fact, fit perfectly.
Annoyingly perfectly.
Too earnest. Too principled. Too convinced medicine should mean something. Fellows usually lost that within a year. She wouldn't have.
He glanced toward the empty chair in the diagnostics office.
Chase and Foreman had looked like that once. Bright-eyed, ambitious, still operating under the delusion that medicine rewarded goodness. Seven years under him had corrected that efficiently.
Taub, of course, had arrived already morally pre-damaged.
House knew he’d made them better doctors. Brutally, maybe, but effectively. Nobody learned what he taught anywhere else.
Still.
There had been something interesting about starting over again. Watching someone new push back. Seeing how long ideals survived contact with reality.
He crushed the empty wrapper in one hand.
Didn’t matter now.
She was gone.
And he would never have to think about her again.
The phone rang.
House sighed.
Of course.
Never say never.
"House."
"Hey, it's me. Listen, I've got one of yours here and—"
A indiscernible noise can be heard in the back.
"Wilson? What are you talking about? Who—"
More noise, and what sounds like voices.
"I'm trying to deal with this so just get over here, alright?"
"Get over where?"
"Just get to the NICU already,"
Click.
House stared at the dead phone for a full second.
“One of yours.”
He pushed himself up with his cane, irritation already winning over curiosity. Wilson did not summon him to the NICU unless something was either catastrophic or annoyingly emotional.
Which usually meant Wilson thought House should care.
He limped out.
The NICU was louder than usual.
Nurses hovered near the station, whispering with poorly concealed fascination. Someone stopped talking the moment House appeared.
Wilson spotted him immediately.
“Finally.”
House followed his gaze.
Masters sat against the wall.
Perfect posture. Hands clenched together in her lap hard enough that her knuckles had gone white. Eyes open.
Unfocused.
And—
House slowed.
A dark bruise bloomed along her cheekbone, already turning purple beneath hospital lighting. Another marked the edge of her jaw. Faint finger-shaped discoloration near her wrist.
His expression didn’t change.
He stepped closer.
She didn’t react. No blink, no shift, nothing when he stopped directly in front of her.
House waved a hand in front of her face.
Nothing.
“Huh.”
Wilson lowered his voice. “I came down here for a consult. I found her here like this but she's just… shut down. Won't answer anyone.”
House crouched slightly, studying her face.
The bruise was fresh.
An hour old at most.
Her breathing was steady but shallow. Shoulders tight. Entire body held rigid, like movement itself might be unsafe.
Fear response.
Not confusion.
Not neurological deficit.
House tapped his cane sharply against the floor near her shoe.
She flinched.
Small. Automatic. Immediate.
House’s eyes narrowed.
“Did anyone touch her?” he asked.
“A nurse tried,” Wilson said. “She pulled away.”
House nodded once.
Decision made.
“She’s coming with me.”
Wilson blinked. “House, maybe we should call—”
“No seizure. No stroke. No psychosis,” House said flatly. “Unless fear became contagious overnight.”
He stepped into her line of sight.
“Masters.”
Her eyes shifted. Barely.
There.
“Up,” he said.
A pause.
Then she stood.
Not willingly. Not comfortably. But she followed when he turned toward the hallway, movements delayed, cautious, like she expected something bad to happen if she misjudged distance or timing.
House noticed she kept half a step behind him.
Like hiding.
Interesting.
The Diagnostic office was quiet.
House pushed the door shut behind them and guided her toward his armchair, careful not to touch her.
“Sit.”
A hesitation.
Then she sat.
Rigid again.
House lowered himself onto the couch across from her, swallowed a Vicodin dry, and watched.
No questions.
Observation first.
Her eyes tracked the room constantly, never settling long. Hands pressed into her sleeves, fingers rubbing the fabric in repetitive motions. Every small sound from the hallway made her shoulders tense.
And she avoided looking directly at him.
House followed the data.
Bruising.
Startle response.
Withdrawal.
Silence.
He leaned back slightly.
Well.
That narrowed things down considerably.
Minutes passed.
He said nothing.
Eventually, awareness returned in pieces. Her breathing deepened. Focus sharpened. She blinked, properly this time, gaze landing on him.
Recognition.
Then immediate alarm.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Dr. House.”
“Took you long enough.”
Her hand moved instinctively toward her face, stopping midway when she seemed to remember the bruises were there.
“I… I don’t remember coming here.”
“You stopped talking,” House said evenly. “NICU. Created a minor spectacle.”
Her shoulders curled inward.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
That made her look up.
Only briefly.
House tilted his head.
“What happened?”
Too fast.
Her gaze dropped immediately.
“Nothing.”
House waited.
Silence stretched.
Her breathing sped up again.
He noted the micro-tremor in her hands. The way she angled her body away from the door. The calculation behind every movement.
Fear again.
House sighed faintly.
“Good news,” he said casually. “You’re not dying. Bad news, someone appears to have attempted amateur facial remodeling.”
She went very still.
“I walked into something.”
House snorted.
“What was it, exactly? A fist-shaped doorframe?”
No answer.
Her fingers twisted tighter.
House watched another few seconds, then leaned forward slightly, voice quieter but sharper.
“Masters.”
She shook her head before he even finished forming the next question.
“I’m fine.”
Lie.
Obvious. Inefficient. Poorly constructed.
"Nope. You don't get to lie to me."
Masters froze.
Not defiant. Not offended.
Cornered.
House leaned forward, cane resting against his knee.
“You show up bruised, non-responsive, exhibiting acute fear response, and I’m supposed to accept ‘doorframe accident’?”
Her breathing hitched.
“I said I’m fine.”
“And I said you’re bad at lying.”
Her hands tightened in her sleeves again, fingers twisting faster now, colourful nails pressing into skin.
House noticed.
Ignored it.
“You live in a dorm,” he continued. “No history of coordination issues. No alcohol use. Which means either someone hit you or Princeton-Plainsboro has developed aggressive furniture.”
Her breathing sped up.
“Dr. House—”
“Who was it?”
Too direct.
Her head shook rapidly.
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Not optional.”
Wrong answer.
Her foot began bouncing uncontrollably against the floor. Shoulders rising toward her ears. Eyes unfocused again, darting instead of tracking.
House pressed anyway.
“Boyfriend? Family? Random stranger? Statistically speaking, you know your attacker.”
Her hands slipped free of her sleeves.
She dug her nails into her palm.
Hard.
House frowned.
Blood welled almost instantly.
“Masters.”
She didn’t respond.
Her breathing fractured into uneven gasps, sound catching halfway between inhale and exhale. She rocked forward slightly, forehead dipping as if trying to fold into herself.
“Oh,” House muttered.
Too late.
Her hand struck her own thigh sharply. Once. Twice. Again, harder, like pain might force everything back into order.
House moved immediately.
“Hey.”
No response.
Another hit.
He grabbed the nearest object off his desk without thinking, a rubber stress ball left behind by Wilson months ago, and shoved it into her hands.
“Here. Break this instead.”
Her fingers latched onto it automatically.
Grip tightening.
Breathing still uneven.
House lowered his voice.
“No more questions,” he said. “You’re fine. Nobody’s asking anything.”
The rocking slowed.
She squeezed the ball again. And again. Repetitive pressure replacing impact.
Good.
House leaned back slightly, making himself smaller in her field of vision.
“Just sit,” he added quietly. “System overload. Happens.”
Minutes passed.
Gradually, her breathing stabilized. Shoulders lowered. The frantic edge drained from her movements, leaving exhaustion behind.
A knock sounded at the door.
Masters jerked violently.
“It’s just the door,” House said calmly. “Not an attacker.”
Wilson stepped inside anyway.
Masters immediately shrank back into the chair, grip tightening around the stress ball.
Wilson stopped short.
“…Oh.”
House shot him a look that clearly translated to don’t be stupid.
Wilson softened his posture instantly.
“Hey, Martha,” he said gently. “You okay?”
She nodded too quickly.
“I’m fine.”
Wilson glanced at House.
Bruises. Blood on her palm. Fear still lingering in her posture.
Understanding clicked.
His expression changed.
House watched the realization land and spoke before Wilson could start moralizing.
“I need the team.”
Wilson blinked. “Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“For what?”
House gestured vaguely toward Masters without looking at her.
“Puzzle.”
Wilson didn’t move.
House met his eyes.
A silent exchange.
You think someone hurt her.
Obviously.
And you’re helping?
Shut up and cooperate.
Wilson exhaled slowly.
“I’ll get them.”
House added, almost as an afterthought, “Make sure to get Chase.”
Wilson paused.
That was specific.
“…Okay.”
He left.
Silence returned.
Masters was still squeezing the stress ball rhythmically, gaze fixed downward.
House watched her for a moment longer.
God.
She was young.
Younger than Chase had been when he’d started. Younger than any of them, really. All certainty and rules and belief that the world made sense if you just behaved correctly.
And someone had still managed to break through that.
House looked away before the thought could settle.
“Good news,” he said lightly. “You’ve officially become interesting again.”
Her grip loosened slightly.
Not a smile.
But closer.
House pretended that was all he’d wanted.
The door opened fifteen minutes later.
Foreman walked in first, already annoyed.
“This better actually be a case because I was in the middle of—”
He stopped.
Taub nearly walked into his back.
“…Oh,” Taub said quietly.
Wilson followed and Chase entered last, closing the door behind him.
His gaze landed on Masters almost immediately.
She still sat in House’s armchair, curled slightly inward, turning the stress ball slowly between her hands. The bruising stood out harshly under the office lights. One sleeve was pulled low over her injured palm.
She didn’t look up.
The room shifted.
Not dramatically, just four experienced doctors instantly recalculating the situation.
Foreman crossed his arms. “What happened?”
House ignored him.
“She experienced sudden non-responsiveness in the NICU,” he said, circling slowly with his cane. “Acute withdrawal. Fear response. Physical trauma inconsistent with reported mechanism.”
Taub frowned. “Reported mechanism?”
“She assaulted a doorframe,” House said dryly.
Taub winced. “Right.”
Chase hadn’t spoken.
He was watching Masters carefully, attention fixed not on the bruises but on her hands. The repetitive motion. The avoidance of eye contact. The tension every time someone shifted position.
Recognition flickered.
House noticed.
Good.
“Here’s the puzzle,” House continued. “Young doctor. Previously functional. Suddenly presenting with shutdown behavior, hypervigilance, and refusal to disclose precipitating event.”
Foreman sighed. “So this is psych.”
“I expect you all to be able to do this,” House said sharply.
He turned toward Chase.
“You remember NICU.”
Chase blinked. “What?”
“2 years in,” House said. “You rotated down there for money because your dad cut you out.”
Foreman frowned. “What does that have to do with—”
House kept his eyes on Chase.
“You came back weird. You stopped sleeping,” he said. “Missed two diagnoses you normally wouldn’t miss. Snapped at a nurse. Wilson thought you were sick.”
Taub looked between them. “I haven't heard about this.”
“You weren’t here,” House said.
Chase shifted uncomfortably. “House…”
“You were weird for days,” House continued. “No bruises. No obvious cause. Just… off.”
Masters’ grip tightened again at the raised voices.
Chase noticed immediately.
His tone changed.
Quieter.
“…Can we not do this in front of everyone?”
House tilted his head.
There it was.
Foreman looked irritated. “Do what? We’re trying to figure out what’s wrong.”
Chase shook his head slightly, eyes still on Masters.
“I’ll talk,” he said. “But not like this.”
House raised an eyebrow. “Privacy? How ethical of you.”
Chase ignored him.
“I want Wilson, Taub, and Foreman out.”
Foreman scoffed. “Excuse me?”
“She’s already overwhelmed,” Chase said evenly. “More people talking isn’t helping.”
Silence fell.
Taub looked vaguely uncomfortable. Wilson looked thoughtful.
House watched the exchange with open interest.
Foreman turned to him. “House?”
House didn’t hesitate.
“Out.”
Foreman stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
“Congratulations,” House said. “You’ve correctly identified an order.”
Foreman muttered something under his breath but turned toward the door. Taub followed, giving Masters one last concerned glance. Wilson lingered a moment longer, searching House’s face.
House gave the smallest nod.
Wilson left.
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Masters’ breathing steadied slightly as the room emptied.
Now it was just the three of them.
House leaned against his desk, arms folded.
“Well,” he said. “Story time.”
Chase didn’t answer immediately.
He dragged a chair closer instead, movements slow, deliberate. He positioned himself slightly to the side of Masters rather than directly in front of her.
Less pressure.
She noticed. Her grip on the stress ball loosened a fraction.
Chase exhaled.
“…It was during my NICU rotation,” he said. “2 or 3 years after I started working with you. As you said. I mean, you remember the reason I was picking up other shifts…”
House twirled his cane once. “You’ve had several humiliating career phases. Narrow it down.”
Chase ignored him.
“The department head. Brown,” he continued carefully, “had a reputation.”
House’s eyes sharpened.
“What kind of reputation?”
Chase hesitated.
“The kind nobody writes down,” he said finally. “But everyone warns you about after the fact.”
Masters went very still.
Chase kept his gaze fixed somewhere near the floor.
“He liked residents. Fellows. Interns.” A beat. “Young ones.”
House’s jaw shifted almost imperceptibly.
“He started with favors,” Chase went on. “Extra exposure. Recommendations. Private mentoring. I didn't want any of that.”
Without the rest of the team there, the silence forced the words forward.
“I turned him down,” Chase said. “Politely. At first.”
House’s voice was quiet now.
“And then?”
Chase let out a humorless breath.
“He stopped being polite.”
Masters’ fingers tightened again around the stress ball.
“He cornered me after rounds,” Chase said. “Office door closed. Started explaining how careers worked. How cooperation made things easier.”
House’s grip tightened on his cane.
“I told him no.”
A pause.
“And when he didn’t stop,” Chase added, visibly uncomfortable, “I told him I worked for you.”
House blinked.
Chase almost smiled despite himself.
“Your reputation helped. I said if anything happened to me, you’d find out. And you’d destroy him.”
Silence.
House’s mouth twitched upward.
“…Good boy.”
Chase huffed quietly, embarrassed.
The approval lasted exactly one second before House’s expression hardened.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Chase shrugged, shoulders pulling inward.
“You hated me back then.”
House stared at him.
“You were constantly trying to fire me,” Chase continued. “You barely tolerated me existing.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Chase swallowed.
“There wasn’t a point,” he said. “I handled it. And honestly… I just assumed you wouldn’t want one of your fellows involved in something like that.”
House’s eyes narrowed.
“For image purposes,” Chase added quickly. “Not because you actually cared.”
The words landed heavier than intended.
House didn’t respond.
Didn’t argue.
Didn’t joke.
Something uncomfortable moved behind his expression and disappeared just as fast.
He shifted forward instead and, awkwardly, briefly, patted Chase once on the elbow.
A stiff, almost mechanical gesture.
Then he pulled his hand back like contact had burned him.
Chase looked more startled by that than anything else.
House cleared his throat.
“…Still should’ve told me.”
Chase nodded faintly.
“I know.”
Silence settled again.
House turned toward Masters.
She had been listening the entire time.
Stress ball motionless now in her hands.
House’s voice softened, though he’d deny it under oath.
“Something similar happen to you?”
A long pause.
Masters stared at the floor.
Then, slowly, she nodded.
Her voice came out thin.
“He asked me to stay after a consult.”
House didn’t interrupt.
“He said he wanted to discuss my future,” she continued. “That I was exceptionally promising.”
Her breathing began to shake again, but she kept going.
“I was excited at first, but when I realised… I told him I wasn’t interested.”
Chase stayed very still beside her.
Masters swallowed.
“He said I was misunderstanding him.”
A humorless sound escaped her.
“I explained that I wasn’t.”
House’s jaw tightened.
“I argued,” she said quietly. “Because he was wrong. And unethical. And abusing authority.”
Of course she had.
Masters always argued when something violated principle.
Her hands trembled.
“He got angry.”
The words slowed.
Careful now.
Measured.
“He said I should be grateful anyone wanted me.”
House’s grip whitened around his cane.
“I told him that was irrelevant to hospital policy.”
Chase closed his eyes briefly.
Masters’ voice dropped.
“And then he hit me.”
Silence crashed into the room.
“Hard,” she added faintly. “I fell.”
She touched her cheek unconsciously.
“He said he didn’t even want me that much anyway.”
A breath.
“Then he left.”
No one spoke.
The office felt suddenly very small.
House said nothing.
But for the first time since Wilson’s call, guilt flickered plainly across his face.
Because when she’d needed leverage…
When she’d needed protection…
He’d fired her.
Masters’ voice barely carried now.
“I didn’t think anyone would believe me.”
Her gaze stayed fixed on the floor.
“And I didn’t have anyone to threaten him with.”
House didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t trust himself to.
The conference room stayed silent after Masters spoke.
I didn’t have anyone.
House didn’t react.
Didn’t joke. Didn’t argue. Didn’t look annoyed.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes unfocused, like he was running differential diagnoses nobody else could see.
Too still.
Chase noticed first.
House wasn’t thinking.
He was deciding.
Chase shifted slightly closer to Masters without thinking about it. Not touching her, not crowding her, just closing distance. A quiet alignment. Someone on her side without making a show of it.
Masters barely noticed.
She was watching House.
Waiting for dismissal. Criticism. Logic. Something clinical that would put distance back between them.
Instead, House spoke calmly.
“You’re rehired.”
Masters blinked. “What?”
“You work here again. Effective immediately.”
“That’s not how employment works.”
House shrugged. “Good thing I don’t respect employment. You work here again. Congratulations. Try not to ruin it”
“That’s not funny.”
“Wasn’t a joke.”
She stared at him. “You fired me.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re rehiring me?”
“Yes.”
“…Why?”
House shrugged, like the answer was obvious.
“Because losing competent doctors lowers survival rates and annoys me personally.”
It sounded clinical. Detached. Almost bored.
Exactly how House hid things.
Masters frowned, unsettled rather than reassured. “You don’t have to do this because of what I said.”
House pushed himself upright with his cane.
“This,” he said, “has nothing to do with feelings.”
Which meant it absolutely did.
He turned toward the door.
“Alright,” he said. “Field trip. Let's go.”
Chase’s head lifted. “Go where?”
House didn’t even look back.
“NICU.”
The air shifted instantly.
Masters’ stomach dropped. “No.”
House stopped walking.
Slowly turned.
“We’re going to talk to Dr. Brown.”
Masters shook her head quickly. “Dr. House, please don’t. It’s over.”
Chase spoke more carefully. “House…”
House’s eyes moved between them.
And what he saw made something dark settle behind his expression.
Fear.
Masters openly.
Chase trying very hard not to show it.
His grip tightened on the cane.
“We’re all going,” House said.
Masters shook her head. “I don’t need you to—”
“Yes,” House said evenly. “You do.”
Not loud.
Not angry.
Certain.
Chase stood then, moving to Masters’ side without announcement. Close enough that she wasn’t alone facing House’s momentum.
House noticed immediately.
Didn’t comment.
Masters looked at him, increasingly confused.
“You’re serious,” she whispered.
House opened the door.
“Oh,” he said quietly, “I’m way past serious.”
And for the first time since entering the room, Masters understood something was very wrong.
House wasn’t just upset.
House was angry.
Dr. Brown was exactly where people like Dr. Brown always were.
Center of the NICU floor, leaning too comfortably against a workstation, laughing at something a nurse said that clearly wasn’t funny.
He noticed them immediately.
His smile widened.
Slow. Assessing.
Smug.
“Well,” Brown said, straightening. “Diagnostics. To what do I owe the honor?”
His eyes slid past House first.
Lingering on Masters.
Too long.
A slow smile stretched across his face before shifting sideways toward Chase. Recognition flickered there, followed by amusement.
“Well, look at that,” Brown said. “You grew up.”
Chase went rigid beside Masters.
Brown tilted his head, studying him openly. “Not nearly as pretty as you used to be, though. Now you just look like your daddy.”
His gaze flicked lazily toward House.
Then back to Masters.
“And this one,” he added softly, eyes traveling over the bruising on her face with disturbing familiarity, “still looks like trouble waiting to happen.”
House stepped forward.
The movement was small.
Final.
“Careful,” House said.
Not loud.
Brown’s smile faltered just slightly.
Recovered.
“What? We’re colleagues.”
House planted his cane against the floor.
“I’m accusing you,” he said evenly, “of assaulting my student.”
Brown laughed.
Openly this time. “That’s a serious claim.”
“You punched her.”
“No proof.”
House nodded once, like he’d expected that answer.
Behind him, Masters’ breathing had gone shallow. Chase stood very still, jaw tight, every muscle telegraphing restraint.
House noticed both.
Adjusted half a step forward, placing himself squarely between them and Brown without acknowledging he’d done it.
“You’re right,” House said calmly. “No proof.”
Brown smirked again.
“But unfortunately for you,” House continued, voice almost conversational, “I’m the best doctor in this hospital.”
The smirk weakened.
“I find things people try very hard to hide.”
Silence spread across the unit.
House’s expression didn’t change.
“I also happen to be dating the Dean of Medicine,” he added mildly. “Who keeps several very enthusiastic lawyers within screaming distance.”
Brown swallowed.
Barely noticeable.
House leaned slightly on his cane.
“So here’s what’s going to happen.”
Still quiet.
Still calm.
“If you ever speak to, look at, evaluate, supervise, breathe near, or accidentally exist in the professional orbit of anyone who has ever worked for me again…”
A beat.
“You will discover consequences so creatively unpleasant that medical journals will classify them as experimental.”
Brown didn’t smile now.
House glanced back briefly.
At Masters.
At Chase.
Both watching him like he’d just rewritten physics.
House turned back.
“Oh,” he added casually, “and Masters doesn’t work for you anymore.”
Brown blinked. “She’s assigned to—”
“She’s mine.”
Flat. Possessive. Final.
House tapped his cane once against the floor.
“Conversation over.”
He turned without waiting for permission.
Chase and Masters followed immediately.
They didn’t speak until they reached the Cafeteria, right next to NICU.
House pulled the door open, then abruptly stopped.
“You two,” he said, pointing vaguely. “Wait.”
Masters hesitated. “House—”
“One second.”
He turned and walked back around before either of them could argue.
The door swung shut behind him.
Silence.
Masters looked at Chase.
Chase stared very deliberately at the floor.
From down the corridor came a dull sound.
A sharp thud.
Followed immediately by a startled cry of pain.
Masters’ eyes widened.
Chase exhaled slowly through his nose.
“…Yeah,” he muttered.
A moment later House returned, flexing his hand irritably.
He tried to lead them forward again.
“Why are you both still standing there?” he snapped. “Move.”
They didn’t.
House rolled his eyes.
“Idiots,” he muttered, already limping past them toward the food line.
But there was something unmistakably lighter in his voice.
Something almost fond.
“Come on,” he added. “I didn’t commit workplace violence for nothing. You're buying me ice-cream.”
He didn’t look back.
They followed anyway.
The cafeteria was nearly empty at this hour.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A vending machine rattled somewhere in the distance. Normal hospital noise. Safe noise.
House considered that acceptable.
Three bowls of ice cream sat on the table.
Vanilla in front of Masters.
Chocolate with peanut butter chunks in front of House.
And very deliberately, aggressively not strawberry in front of Chase.
Chase eyed it.
“You realize,” he said carefully, “I am capable of selecting my own ice cream.”
House pointed his spoon at him. “Last time you selected your own ice cream you nearly died.”
“I did not nearly die.”
“You needed epinephrine.”
“That was precautionary.”
“You turned the color of Pepto-Bismol.”
Masters blinked between them. “You’re allergic to strawberries?”
Chase sighed. “Mildly.”
House scoffed. “One time his throat started closing up and he still tried to finish presenting a case.”
“I was fine.”
“You were wheezing.”
“I was just committed.”
House leaned back smugly. “And now you’re doomed to me picking your ice-cream for life.”
Chase muttered something under his breath and took another bite of chocolate instead.
Masters watched them quietly.
Still holding her spoon like she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.
The bruise on her cheek looked darker under cafeteria lighting, but her shoulders had finally lowered. The rigid alertness from earlier had softened into exhausted calm.
House noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He also noticed she hadn’t really eaten yet.
He nudged her bowl slightly with his cane.
“Eat,” he said.
She blinked. “I am.”
“One spoon every five minutes doesn’t count. It's gonna melt.”
She obeyed automatically, taking a small bite.
House pretended not to see Chase hide a faint smile behind his cup.
For a while, they just sat there.
Eating ice cream.
Not diagnosing anything.
Not arguing.
Not pretending nothing had happened.
It felt dangerously close to peaceful.
House hated it.
Which was probably why he broke the silence.
“If something like this happens again,” he said, staring down at his bowl, tone casual enough to almost miss, “you tell me.”
Neither of them answered immediately.
So he looked up.
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
Masters hesitated. “You fired me.”
“And yet,” House said dryly, gesturing vaguely at her existence across from him, “here you are.”
Chase shifted slightly beside her, quieter now. “You aren't exactly the most approachable.”
House frowned.
“That’s slander.”
Chase raised an eyebrow.
House ignored him.
His gaze moved between them instead.
“You work for me,” he said. “Which means idiots outside my department don’t get to break my things.”
Masters stared at him.
Processing.
Understanding landed slowly, visibly unsettling her more than anger would have.
“You’re… angry for me,” she said.
House immediately looked offended. “Don’t make this emotional.”
Chase snorted into his ice cream.
House kicked his chair lightly under the table.
Then, after a moment, more quietly:
“Just tell me next time.”
Masters nodded.
Chase did too.
Agreement without ceremony.
House finished the last bite of his ice cream and stood, grabbing his cane.
“Alright. Bonding complete. Back to work.”
“You said we were buying the ice cream,” Chase said.
House was already walking away. “You did.”
Masters frowned. “You paid.”
House didn’t turn around.
“Wilson paid.”
Later, back in his office, House dropped into his chair.
Same desk.
Same leg pain.
Same inexplicably dying patient waiting.
This morning he’d been celebrating.
Finally rid of Masters. Her morality. Her arguments. Her irritating habit of being right.
Peace restored.
He stared at the diagnostic board.
Then at the empty chair that was, once again, very much not going to stay empty.
He had her back.
More than before, actually.
Rehired without paperwork.
Reclaimed out of pure irritation.
Wanted.
House exhaled slowly.
“…Huh.”
A beat passed.
Then another thought arrived.
He groaned.
“How,” he muttered to the empty office, “am I going to explain this to Cuddy?”
The phone on his desk rang.
House let it ring twice before picking up.
“House.”
A pause.
He sighed.
“Yes, I rehired her.”
Another pause.
He grimaced.
“…Because I felt like it.”
He hung up before she could respond.