Work Text:
Ever since you’d started at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, you’d felt out of place. You’d tried so hard to integrate yourself into the team. You’d baked cookies, made small talk, arrived an hour early every day, but it was pointless. The team itself was nice enough, but there was a huge problem, one that came with a cane and a bottle of vicodin; House.
From day one in the diagnostics department, it seemed to you like he’d made it his personal mission to make your life hell. He’d order you around to make him coffee, tell you your ideas were beyond stupid, and make it very, very clear to everyone that he thought you were the very bottom of the diagnostic hierarchy. You didn't understand why; you tried sucking up, you tried acting aloof, but it seemed all your efforts fell flat.
Now, you were sitting at the table, watching quietly as House read out a patient’s file. You didn’t dare say anything for fear of being wrong, or worse, being right and nevertheless being told that you were being an idiot. In your head, you’d developed a habit of rehearsing your comments before suggesting them to House, like lines in a play. Your nails ticked against your mug, a quiet, nervous metronome no one but you seemed to hear.
“Henry Wright. Mid 50s. History of diabetes. No family. Checked in by his brother after he spiralled and tried to punch a random pedestrian in the street.” House read out in his signature drawl, almost bored, though the twinkle in his eye gave away his curiosity. His cane clicked as he paced slowly in front of his whiteboard, while his team thought hard for something useful to say. House looked up with a raised eyebrow and scoffed.
“Well? I don’t pay you guys to be silent. Thoughts? Anyone?”
The usual routine ensued. One by one, each of the team members came up with a suggestion, which House took pleasure in shutting down with a sarcastic comment.
Foreman spoke up again. “Could be neurological–”
House gasped dramatically. “The neurologist thinks it’s neurological. Careful, Foreman. If you keep stating the obvious, people might start to think you stole your degree instead of going to med school.”
Foreman and Cameron rolled their eyes, annoyed but unsurprised, while Chase smiled eagerly like House was the funniest person alive.
You took your chance to jump in, clearing your throat and offering your idea softly like you were guilty for taking up air. House’s gaze lingered on you a second longer than necessary. You were right, of course, but he was more interested in your body language. The way your shoulders tightened, your careful voice, already shrinking from a blow that hadn’t come yet. He didn’t know whether it irritated him or intrigued him. Probably both. Either way, it brought him great pleasure to toy with you by staying silent for a few more seconds while you tapped your fingers so hard against your mug you could’ve broken it.
Today, however, he was seemingly in a good mood. Eventually, he waved his cane in your direction.
“Well, go on then. Cameron, run the lab tests. Chase, Foreman, you’re my homebreakers for today. Find me something useful. And you—“
He shoved his wooden cane right in your face, almost knocking your nose off.
“—talk to the patient. Try and get him to consent for more tests.”
You frowned, daring to protest for once. “He’s still unstable. Shouldn’t I wait until he’s calmed down a little?” You refused to let him know you were scared, but of course, nothing got by him. He was a world-renowned diagnostician after all.
“Relax, newbie. He’s a divorced guy in his 50s, I’m sure if you unbutton your blouse a little he’ll do whatever you say.” He smiled in a mockingly innocent way, resting his chin on his cane as if he expected you to jump to the idea and pop off the buttons on your blouse instantly.
You blushed furiously, humiliated while he stayed perfectly unphased. To him, it was as normal a comment as “Good morning” or “How are you”. Infuriatingly however, you bit your lip and nodded, preventing any complaints from falling out. You could hear a voice in your head, telling you to stand up for yourself, to point him in the direction of hell, but you ignored it, pushing it back down into the dark hole it had crawled out of. Standing up for yourself would be a job for another day, a day where you’d had enough cheap coffee to deal with House’s cruelty. So you forced a tight lipped smile and left.
Your heels clicked on the floor as you hurried off to the patient’s room, though you were sure the buzzing thoughts in your head were louder. You were sick of what your role in the team had boiled down to; the “mediator”. The big cheery idiot he deployed when Cuddy needed convincing and patients needed calming. Clearly House didn’t trust you to do anything of importance, or the “big kid work” as he called it, and you were exhausted trying to gain his trust. Why had he hired you in the first place, if all he would ever ask of you was to put on a smile and flash your cleavage to patients for consent forms? Someone else could do that easily! Hell, if Chase put on some more cologne and flashed an even brighter smile, you were sure he could make even the most stubborn assholes sign whatever he wanted.
The anger swirling in your head was so loud that you barely heard the cane clicking behind you, and you definitely didn’t feel the watchful blue eyes on your head, observing carefully.
It was quiet in the patient’s room when you finally arrived, save for steady beeping and soft breaths. You relaxed, assuming the patient was in a better headspace now. You walked over to the side of his bed, plastering that signature smile that House called your “Hospital Brochure Smile”.
“Mr Wright! How are you feeling?” You spoke up gently, walking over to his bed. It was only once you reached the man’s side that you realised his eyes were wide open. You recognised that look. The glint, the fire, the manic twitching. You were in big trouble.
His fist swung wildly, hitting nothing but the air beside you. You stepped back instantly, terrified but attempting to keep cool. The patient was spiralling; muttering nonsense, flinching at shadows, fists clenching and unclenching. You knew why House had picked you to talk him down. You could easily diffuse tension with a few quiet words and a steady gaze. He’d used you.But this wasn’t working. This was impossible, and you hated House more than ever at that moment.
You inched closer, trying to keep your voice level, hands hovering carefully in front of you.
“Hey, it’s okay. No one’s here to hurt you-”
The man groaned, clutching his head. “Stop. Fucking. Talking–”
He twisted around when you tried again, and instantly lashed out. His fist caught your jaw, a blunt crack of impact that sent white across your vision, a yelp of agony escaping you. He knocked you back into a tray of instruments and sent you to the floor along with them with a loud clatter. You sat there, dizzy, feeling like your head had been cracked open, tears spilling freely.
For a second, there was no air. Just ringing. Just the ceiling lights burning into your eyes while the patient’s breathing turned animal, ragged and loud. A shadow loomed, blocking the light. He was closer now. Too close. You saw his hands flex, knuckles red, spit at the corner of his mouth as he muttered to someone who wasn’t there, twitching like something within him was clawing to be let out.
“Hey!”
A stern voice yelled out, followed by the fast paced clicking of wood against the floor. You looked up through your pained haze and saw House dropping his cane before half limping, half running to your side. He crouched with a wince and inspected the bruise on your jaw briefly before pulling you out of the way, placing himself between you and the patient.
“Congratulations,” he snapped, “You just met the legal definition of ‘assailant.’ Hospital policy says I can now get hands-on.”
He lifted his cane from the floor and drove it across the patient’s chest, forcing a distance. House wasn’t very strong, being in his forties with a limp, but he was relentless, and he managed to pin the man down to the floor with his cane, though the patient struggled hard and yelled out slurred, incoherent curses. In a large wave, the nurses and security scrambled in to restrain the man, but House didn’t move. He didn’t look at you, not at first. He just stood there, breathing heavily, eyes trained on nothing in particular.
Eventually, the patient was dragged away, his yelling slowed further by the effects of a tranquiliser. You were still sitting on the floor, stunned, a hand rubbing your jaw. Your dizziness was disappearing, leaving behind excruciating pain that cut through any fear you’d felt.
House finally looked down at you. Without a word, he offered his cane, gentler this time. You blinked, confused, before realising what he was doing. You held on as he tugged you back up on your feet. You weren’t sure what to say. “Thank you” didn’t seem to encompass it. “Thank you for saving my life and protecting me, oh great saviour” was a bit much, though it would stroke his ego. You opted for a quiet “Thanks”, before averting your eyes and looking anywhere but him. His response was even more half-assed, just a nod and a barely perceptible grunt. It made you smile, and for a moment he smiled back.
“Maybe I should’ve given you someone easier to work with, newbie. Save the violent psychos for guys like Chase.” He joked, but his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. He seemed almost remorseful.
He jutted his chin forwards in the direction of the rapidly growing bruise on your jaw. “Icepack?”
You nodded and mumbled, unable to move your mouth too much for fear of the head-splitting pain that would follow it. “Yes, please.”
He turned obligingly, leading the way to his office. He kept twisting his neck to look over at you, a million things to say on the tip of his tongue, all of them not feeling right, so he stayed silent.
When he reached his office, he opened his minifridge and crouched with a small hiss to inspect the contents. From what you could see, the fridge was filled up with only beers and icepacks. You laughed quietly, though it hurt to move your jaw even a little.
“Seriously? Why do you have so many ice packs in your office? Aren’t those meant for actual patients?”
House straightened up and limped over to you. He looked at you like you were stupid, a look you’d gotten used to over the weeks. “Have you met me? I’m an asshole. I get punched a lot.”
Your laugh was stopped abruptly by an icepack being pressed carefully against your jaw. He was close. Very close. You could smell his cologne along with the faint scent of beer and something medical. It was comforting, and you closed your eyes, letting yourself be taken care of for once. It was strange how gentle he was being. He stopped pressing the ice down every time you winced, and only continued when you gave him a small nod of reassurance.
Eventually, even House knew he had to say something, anything. He muttered, “You’re gonna have a pretty ugly bruise.” You flinched as the ice hit tender skin, but responded anyway.
“Good thing my job isn’t modelling.”
He huffed faintly at that, eyes still fixed on your injury. “You could be.”
You blinked, a light flush appearing on your cheeks that was thankfully hidden by his hand and ice. No. You would not let yourself feel so flattered by such a simple, passing compliment, least of all coming from House. A couple seconds of loud silence passed.
“You got there fast,” you said eventually.
His grip on the ice pack shifted. “I walk fast.”
“You limp fast,” you corrected gently. “You were already in the hallway, weren’t you.” It wasn’t a question, and no answer came. Instead, more silence. His jaw ticked.
“You following me around now?” you prodded, trying for light, but you were curious. You needed to know why he’d been there. Clearly, he didn’t trust you to do your job. Or maybe he wanted to see you get your ass kicked.
“I supervise my team,” he responded flatly.
“You supervise Cameron by insulting her outfits. You supervise Foreman by arguing pointlessly with him. You don’t hover.”
“You’re right, I don’t hover,” he snapped a little too quickly.
Your eyes met his. “Then how did you know?”
Another pause. Too long.
“You always freeze when things get loud, you hate confrontation, you’ve got the argumentative skills of a fly,” he said finally. “I didn’t trust you not to get your ass kicked by the guy.”
Your brows pulled together. “So you were watching me.”
“I was watching the patient.” He bit back.
You were quiet for a moment, debating whether or not to confront him, but needing to hear the truth. “You read my file,” you said quietly. Certain, not accusing.
He didn’t answer.
“House.” You insisted, a little louder.
“Occupational hazard,” he muttered finally. “I read everything.”
“That wasn’t medical.”
“Everything,” he repeated.
Something shifted in your expression. Not anger, but just as bad. Hurt. He stiffened. Vulnerable territory wasn’t his strong point, so he switched to defending himself.
“You’re alive,” he said shortly. “You can be mad about privacy tomorrow.”
You studied him for a second longer, then looked down. That made it worse. He knew you were hurt, and he didn’t care enough to fix it, or at least apologise. He cleared his throat, mask snapping back into place.
“Try not to get punched in the face again,” he said, stepping back, voice dry. “It’s arguably your strongest feature.”
You flinched away like he’d thrown acid on you. House was back; horrible, thoughtless, shallow House who never felt the need to hold back any cruel words. You pulled away and grabbed your stuff. You couldn’t stay there any longer, or you’d start crying, and you couldn’t think of anything more humiliating. You stormed out, not bothering to look back at him. You were sure you could imagine his face anyway. Cool, unbothered, already thinking about the next way to torture his team, to torture you.