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The clinic floor of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital was currently operating under a quiet, low-frequency hum that Gregory House usually exploited to take a nap in his office. He had his bad leg propped up on his desk, a rubber ball tossing lazily from his right hand to the ceiling, caught, and tossed again.
Then came the sharp, unmistakable rhythm of high heels clicking furiously against the linoleum outside his glass doors. House didn't even bother opening both eyes.
'If you're here to tell me the diabetic in Room 3 has a high blood sugar because he ate a family-sized bag of Skittles, I already know, and I already don't care.'
Dr Cuddy stepped into the room, sliding his glass door shut with a heavy snap. She didn't look annoyed in her usual 'House didn't do his clinic hours' way. Rather, she looked stressed in an entirely different, highly specific way.
'It's not about Room 3,' Cuddy sighed, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. 'It's about Y/N.'
House's hand paused in mid-air, the rubber ball resting motionless in his palm. His gray eyes flicked over to her, sharp and calculating. He didn't drop his leg from the desk, but his posture subtly shifted.
'What about her?' House asked, his tone dropping its usual exaggerated pitch into something flatter.
'She was scheduled to run the pediatric lab samples two hours ago,' the female boss said smoothly, taking a seat across from him. 'Yet, when Cameron went down to find her, Y/N was sitting under her workbench. She had her knees pulled up to her chin, her noise-canceling headphones squeezed over her ears, and she refused to come out. When Cameron tried to talk to her, Y/N practically crawled out of her skin.'
House let out a short, nasal puff of air. 'So she had a sensory overload. The lights in the basement labs hum at sixty hertz. It drives her crazy, I've told you three times already to change the ballast.'
'No, House. It's not just that,' Cuddy interrupted, her voice softening slightly. 'Chase went down next to see if she needed medical attention. She wouldn't look at him, she wouldn't speak to Cameron, nor would she speak to Foreman. She just hid under the desk, clutching that stuffed octopus she keeps in her locker, shaking her head. The only word she has said in the last ninety minutes as been your name.'
House stared at Cuddy for a beat, his jaw working silently.
On a normal day, Y/N was... certainly particular. She was brilliant at processing high-volume toxicology screens because her mind noticed microscopic anomalies no one else saw, but she navigated the hospital like a stray cat. She hated eye contact, wore seamless socks inside out because the non-existent seams still irritated her ankles, ate the exact same turkey sandwich cut into four neat triangles at precisely 12:15 PM every day, and had a blunt, filtered-zero way of speaking that House found immensely superior to the usual sycophantic drivel of his fellows. She didn't do small talk. She didn't do social pleasantries. And, as House was acutely aware, she had moments where the world simply became too loud, too big, and too sharp, causing her to retreat into a small, silent, soft shell. Yet she was not someone the hospital would ever want to get rid of due to the immense talent she continuously displayed. She was truly indispensable.
'She asked for me?' House questioned, his eyebrows twitching upward.
'She whimpered your name through her fingers,' Cuddy corrected gently. 'She's currently sitting in the small consult room down the hall. I told the staff to leave her alone, but we need to know if she's having a neurological issue, a psych breakthrough, or if she just needs to go home.'
Doctor House swung his bad leg off the desk with a heavy thump, grabbing his Vicodin bottle off the blotter. He popped two pills into his mouth, swallowed them dry, and reached for his cane.
'She doesn't have a neurological issue,' The man growled as if he was the one insulted, leaning heavily on the wooden grip as he stood up. 'She's overwhelmed because you people breathe too loud and smell like cheap perfume. Stop analysing her like a lab rat.'
He pushed past Cuddy, his cane clacking rhythmically against the floorboards as he marched down the glass corridor.
The small consult room at the end of the hall was dim. Gregory House had personally instructed the head nurse last month to unscrew two of the overhead fluorescent bulbs in this specific room so Y/N wouldn't wince every time she walked in.
He didn't knock when he arrived at the consult room Y/N had been hiding. House never knocked. And so, he slipped through the door and clicked it shut behind him, cutting off the dull roar of the main hospital corridor without making a singular noise.
The room was freezing, and in the far corner, tucked into the narrow gap between the vinyl examination table and the wall, sat a tight, shivering bundle.
You had pulled yourself into a tight ball, sitting directly on the linoleum floor. Your knees were pressed firmly against your chest, wrapped in your oversized knit cardigan. The noise-canceling headphones were clamped tight over your ears, though the cord was dangling unplugged onto the floor. In your arms, squished flat against your sternum, was the plush plushie octopus you usually kept hidden in your desk drawer.
Gregory House stood by the door for a long moment, leaning on his cane, taking in the scene. His sharp, diagnostic eyes picked up every detail: the quick, shallow rise and fall of your shoulders, the tear-stains drying on your cheeks, the way your thumb was obsessively stroking the soft velvet bell of the octopus toy in a fast, rhythmic tick.
He didn't rush over. He didn't make a big dramatic fuss. Instead, House dragged his right foot slowly as he walked over to the rolling doctor's stool. He pulled it out, sat down with a low grunt, and stretched his bad leg straight out in front of him. The metal wheels squeaked once, and he felt you flinch at the sound.
'Lights are off,' the usually rude doctor said, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the quiet room. It wasn't soft- House didn't do soft- but it was steady, low, and completely void of the sharp sarcasm he used as a weapon against the rest of the world. 'There is no Cameron hovering over you like a sad golden retriever, and no Chase looking like a hair commercial. It's just me.'
Slowly, very slowly, the top of your head emerged from behind your plushie. Your eyes were wide, wet, and slightly unfocused. The bright, sharp edge you usually had when debating lab results was completely gone, replaced by an open, vulnerable helplessness.
You looked up at him: tall, rough-around-the-edges Doctor Gregory House sitting on his stool, leaning his chin on his hands folded atop his cane.
'Greg...' you whispered. Your voice sounded tiny. It didn't sound like the voice of a thirty-year-old toxicologist. It sounded small, fragile, and distinctly childlike.
'Yeah. The one and only,' House grunted lightly. He reached out with the tip of his cane and gently nudged the cord of your unplugged headphones hanging on the floor. 'You're wearing the ear-muffs, but they aren't plugged into anything. That's terrible audio quality.'
You let out a shaky, wet breath, squeezing your octopus tighter. 'Too... too loud outside.'
'I know,' House said. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a fresh, unopened box of blue nitrile gloves, and set them lazily on his lap. 'The hospital is full of sick idiots who like to yell, it's a design flaw.'
You stared at his knee, your bottom lip trembling slightly. 'Ness... Cameron talked at me. Too many words. Big words.'
'Cameron likes the sound of her own voice,' House agreed casually. 'She thinks if she talks enough, the universe will fix itself. It's an affliction. Do you want me to fire her for you?'
A tiny, involuntary snort escaped your nose, though your shoulders immediately hitched with a lingering sob. You shook your head, pressing your cheek back down onto the plush octopus. 'No... 's not her fault. I just- I woke up today and the world was too big.'
Doctor House watched you carefully. He knew this setting, he knew the complex gears turning inside your brain: how normally you were a wall of facts, hyper-fixations on heavy metals, and rigid routines, but when the sensory cup overflowed, your mind retreated down a long, quiet staircase to a place where things were simple, small, and safe.
He didn't judge it. Hell, House spent half his life trying to escape his own brain using Vicodin and television; he couldn't exactly criticise you for finding a simpler floor to stand on.
'World's always too big,' House muttered, shifting his bad leg with a slight wince. 'That's why we stay inside. Come here.'
You looked up at him, your big eyes searching his face. 'Floor is cold.'
'Then stop sitting on it, genius,' House said, tapping his bad thigh with two fingers. 'Up. Before my leg cramps and I have to shoot myself.'
Slowly, carefully, you uncurled your legs. You held your plush octopus tightly against your chest with one hand, using the edge of the examination table to push yourself up onto your feet. Your oversized cardigan hung off one shoulder, the sleeves completely swallowing your hands.
You took three tiny, hesitant steps toward him. The doctor, your boss, didn't move. He sat there like a stubborn old tree, solid and unyielding.
When you reached him, you didn't sit on the spare chair. You carefully squeezed yourself into the tiny space right next to his stool, pulling your legs up onto the crossbar, and leaned your entire upper body against his side. You buried your face into the rough tweed of his jacket, letting out a long, shuddering exhale that smelled faintly of sweet strawberry lip balm.
Gregory House grunted as your weight settled against his shoulder, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he casually rested his heavy, broad hand over the back of your head, his long fingers cupping the crown of your hair, shielding you from the room.
'You're heavy,' House lied, his tone dry as bone. 'Like carrying a sack of wet flour.'
'Not heavy,' you mumbled against his jacket, your fingers clutching the lapel of his coat. 'You're warm.'
'I have a fever. I'm dying. You should go back to work,' he grunted, though his hand remained firmly planted on your head, his thumb gently stroking back and forth behind your ear in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
You closed your eyes, instantly leaning into the repetitive motion. Touch was usually a nightmare for you when you were like this; it was too much texture, too much unexpected movement- yet Greg's touch was heavy, predictable, and firm. It felt like an anchor holding a tiny boat against a storm.
'Greg?' you murmured softly.
'What?'
'Everyone was mad.'
'Everyone is always mad,' House said matter-of-factly, reaching into his pocket with his free hand, pulling out a small, foil-wrapped object, and flipping it into your lap. 'Cuddy is mad because she has a title, Foreman is mad because he's boring, Cameron is mad because she cares about things. It's a standard Tuesday.'
You looked down at your lap. It was a single, neat square of dark chocolate: the eighty-five percent cacao kind he kept locked in his desk drawer so Wilson wouldn't steal it.
Your eyes lit up slightly, the dark cloud over your face breaking just a fraction. 'For me?'
'No, for the octopus. Yes, for you,' House growled, turning his head to look out the narrow glass window of the door. He could see Chase and Cameron standing down the hall, whispering to each other while glancing nervously toward the room. House lifted his left hand, caught Chase's eye through the glass, and gave him a blunt, universally understood middle finger. Chase blinked, flushed red, and quickly tugged Cameron away down the corridor.
You didn't notice any of it. You were busy carefully, methodically unwrapping the silver foil. You did it with extreme precision: smoothing out the tiny foil wrapper into a perfect, unwrinkled square on top of your knee before taking a tiny bite of the chocolate.
'Is it good?' House asked, his hand still resting against your head, his fingers lightly playing with the ends of your hair.
You nodded rapidly, chewing slowly. 'Mhm.. Smooth. Not noisy chocolate.'
'Noisy chocolate?' House repeated, raising an eyebrow. 'What the hell is noisy chocolate?'
'Crunchy ones,' you explained softly, leaning closer into his side, resting your chin on his chest. 'With the nuts. They make loud sounds in my teeth. Dark chocolate is quiet.'
House let out a soft, low chuckle, a rare, genuine sound that barely made it past his lips. 'Right. Noisy peanuts.. The ultimate medical crisis.'
He let you finish your chocolate in absolute silence. For ten minutes, the consult room was completely quiet except for the steady, dull hum of the air conditioner and the soft sound of your breathing.
When you were regressed like this, you didn't need him to solve a puzzle, you didn't need him to be the smartest man in the room. You just needed him to be there: a giant, grumpy, immovable object that kept the rest of the loud, terrifying world from crashing down on you.
And surprisingly, House didn't mind the job. It was the only time all day nobody was asking him for a diagnosis, nobody was yelling at him about clinic hours, and nobody was expecting him to lie. He was just there, and his presence was enough.