summary: Wilson brings House an interesting case. You’re not impressed, though.
warnings: angst, fluff if you squint, intellectual smut ig you could say, medical abuse (its house)
words: 5.5k
notes: the medical jargon in this is…something. well. i have the poetic license to hide my ignorance of the matter. hope you enjoy! xx
Chapter I: The Diagnosis
Zzz.
That is all you can hear at the moment.
Wilson and his stupid ideas. Just when you were actually getting the hang of it. You even learned signing in record time! One month. One month lying in bed with more broken bones than you could count, obsessively reading ASL textbooks and watching video classes on YouTube. It had paid off. You even made other deaf friends online. God, you were searching for anything, literally anything to convince the doctors you were fine and dandy so you could finally leave that vegetable-like state they put you under. And yet… here you are again. Because of Wilson.
Oh, how you absolutely despised hospitals. Even the smell of it made you sick. You wouldn’t be surprised if it somehow contributed to the muteness and deafness—though it logically did not, since you had left two months ago and still weren’t able to hear or speak shit—but solely for Wilson’s peace of mind, you obliged to come see this friend of his who he claims to be Jesus with a cane. Sure, he could be overly dramatic with his faith in people, however, you couldn’t deny: Wilson wasn’t often wrong. And despite doing your best to adjust to the new lifestyle after the accident, there was still this fragile, helpless hope in your heart to at least get back your speech.
“Alright, rats, circulating”, House huffs, waving his team off once the differential is done.
You watch the scene from the glass separating his office and their table, reading his lips. He turns around and his blue eyes find yours, narrowing immediately at the sight of you, a stranger, mindlessly playing with one of the wooden figures on his desk. You follow the trajectory of his irises and let go of the toy, standing up straight as he barges in.
House doesn’t bother signing, speaking so clearly and loudly you can hear the faint sound of his voice trying to reach over the buzz in your ears, “Wilson’s charity case, I presume. What is your problem, Dopey?”
You blink, shooting him a challenging look when you sign, “you don’t know ASL? I expected more from the great Dr. House.” You stare at him for a moment, satisfied at the bewildered expression on his face as Foreman, who’s still nearby, translates what you said with a smirk. You continue, “thanks, Dr. Foreman. And yes, Wilson dragged me here. He’s concerned with my health, which is obviously unnecessary. I’m just fine and dandy.” You do a thumbs up and open a tight, plastic grin.
House scoffs so aggressively it makes Foreman flinch at his side. “You can’t speak, can barely hear, yet managed to find a way to call me an idiot? Miserable and combative, you’ll fit right in.” He limps closer, planting his cane between you both, his gaze sharp and invasive, “your rigid posture screams control freak. That means you’re just picking fights with the smartest guy in the room to prove you’re still dominant because you’re terrified your body isn’t doing what it’s supposed to do.” He snatches a dry-erase marker from one of his drawers and tosses it onto the desk right in front of you. “The accident caused trauma, sure, but the sudden onset of both mutism and localized hearing loss without a massive skull fracture or total brain death doesn’t add up. Write down exactly what—”
You roll your eyes and don’t even let him finish, walking decisively toward the board in the other room. You can feel his presence behind you whilst you write swiftly. “Car. Speed. Red light. Boom. Wake up at hospital. Deaf. Loud buzz. Meds. Buzz stop. Quiet hum. Can’t speak. Words won’t come out. Still got voice.” You scowl at him, trying to formulate a sound to demonstrate. All that comes out is indeed an unintelligible, gibberish whimper. You point to your own mouth and raise your brows, writing one last thing, “see?”
House tracks every single word, scanning each trace the moment the ink hits the white surface. The room is dead silent as his team appears again, gathering beside Foreman. They all read your statements with clinical attention, wincing ever so slightly at the forced sound out of your throat. House’s features remain cold and calculated, nonetheless, not an ounce of sympathy toward you—but with interest.
He spins around to face everyone, his cane whipping the air to point at the whiteboard. “Car versus red light. Traumatic impact. But look at the progression: she wakes up deaf with tinnitus, they give her meds and the buzz mostly stops. Then, the kicker: she has a voice, air moves through the cords, but the brain refuses to assemble the puzzle.”
Foreman frowns, leaning forward, “hysterical mutism. Conversion disorder from the trauma of the crash.”
House sneers so loudly, again, you can practically feel the vibration. “Conversion disorder is what doctors call it when they want to go home early and watch television. Next.” He looks back at you, his blue eyes drilling into yours. “You’re too stubborn for a psychological block, your brain doesn’t want to be broken. Chase, what meds did they give Dopey here in the ER to kill the ‘loud buzz’?”
Chase thinks for a second, his mouth moving smoothly, “probably high-dose steroids or IV lidocaine if they thought it was acute acoustic trauma—”
“Lidocaine.” House mumbles, a lightbulb visibly going off behind the restless azure orbs. “It blocks sodium channels and stabilizes neuronal membranes. If a nerve was firing wildly after the crash causing that roar in your ears, the meds shut it down. What if they shut down a little too much, though? Or what if the ‘boom’ didn’t just rattle the eardrums, but dislodged a tiny piece of debris, a clot, a fat embolus from a broken bone, and sent it straight upstream? Broca’s area handles word production. Wernicke’s handles comprehension… What’s right next to them?”
Thirteen’s eyes widen. “The primary auditory cortex, they share the same vascular supply: the middle cerebral artery.”
“Ding, ding, ding, give the lady a prize!” House turns to you once more, a smug grin matching the one you gave him earlier. “You don’t have two separate problems, but one small, stubborn squatter sitting right at the intersection of your hearing and speech. A localized ischemic event or a deep tissue hematoma masking as post-crash shock.” He straightens up and barks at the others, “get Dopey down to MRI. I want a high-resolution contrast scan of the left perisylvian region.”
You watch their diagnosis flying around, nearly getting whiplashed by how fast it happened. Huh. Perhaps Wilson wasn’t exaggerating about the guy, after all. With a sigh and a brief nod, you hand him back his marker and narrow your gaze, gesticulating curtly, “so-called geniuses should know sign language.”
You leave without waiting for a response. For a split second, a look of genuine, amused surprise flashes across House’s features just as your hands finish their parting insult. Albeit not being fluent, he does know a few things to patch up the meaning of what you signed. Rarely does anyone get the last word in his office, let alone someone who doesn’t use a voice to do it. He’s almost impressed.
Almost.
Chapter II: The Pudding
Two days later, you’re back at House’s office, wearing thick winter clothes and frowning deeply at one of his medical textbooks to pass the time. You try to read the scientific terms with headstrong determination, but it is to no avail. You don’t get shit. Your eyes are heavy from the meds he’s been prescribing you; his courtesy for the neverending buzz in your hearing. You rub your eyelids, sighing softly. Your brain feels like it’s swimming in molasses.
A sudden vibration rattles through the legs of the couch and you snap your head up. House is standing right in front of you in an instant, the fog in your mind shadowing the detail and speed of his movement. He’s wearing his usual crumpled blazer, staring down at you with intense scrutiny. He glances at the textbook in your lap, then looks back up at your face, his lips moving with slow, deliberate clarity before he yanks the book from your hands in the blink of an eye.
“Alright, Dopey, listen up. The MRI showed a lovely little shadow near your left temporal lobe, a slow-draining hematoma from the crash, putting pressure on the auditory cortex and shortcutting Broca’s area.” He taps his own ear, then points at your mouth. “Now, give me a progress report on the pills. Can you understand the words in your head yet, or is the gray matter still staging a protest?”
You squint, as if trying to assemble your ideas into your voice again, and a raspy murmur comes out, “words…” The moment the mumbled syllable leaves your throat, House’s blue irises instantly follow the movement of your lips, his head tilting like a hound catching a scent. It wasn’t a whimper this time. It was an actual word. A poorly formed, exhausted word, but a word nonetheless. An excruciating pain spreads through your head when you attempt to mutter something else and you shake your head in frustration, signing rapidly, “this is bullshit.”
Still coming down from the high of the small win, House rolls his eyes impatiently. He brutally tosses the heavy medical book onto the desk behind him. “Oh, how delightfully tragic. Let’s all cue the violins for the broken intellectual who wants to go home because recovery is taking longer than a commercial break.” You try to respond with more signing, but he waves a dismissive hand and continues talking, pointing the rubber tip of the cane directly at your chest. “You just spoke. The meds are draining the fluid. The pressure on your left hemisphere is dropping, which means the wires are finally sparking again. Be happy.”
“I can’t even pronounce—”
House cuts off your signing again, pulling down your hands. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small orange pill bottle and rattles it vigorously, letting you feel the vibrations. “Shut your fingers up for a second. We’ll double the dosage of the anti-inflammatory and tomorrow, you are going to look at me and tell me precisely where I can shove this cane, using your actual voice.”
You glare daggers at him for a long, dragging moment before showing him the middle finger, though your shoulders slacken quickly afterwards. You’re just exhausted at this point. “Fine.” You gesticulate shortly and stand back up, walking toward the exit. You shoot him one last glance, signing with one hand before leaving, “learn it.”
Away from your gaze, House doesn’t move an inch. He’s studying the exact spot where you just signed, his jaw set in a stubborn, thoughtful line. Unhurriedly, he lifts his left hand. His fingers twitch awkwardly, clumsily mimicking the shape of the last sign you made, trying to decode the motion with his own hands. He stops when a pair of nurses appears in the hallway and rolls his eyes at himself, roughly limping back to his desk.
Once inside the elevator, the doors close with a quiet thud you don’t hear, cutting off the view of his office. The low hum in your ears persists, yet the weight of the pill bottle in your bag feels a little more manageable now. Words.
Right.
Later that night, Wilson’s eating all your pudding unashamedly when you scoff abruptly and sign, “he’s an asshole.”
He pauses with a spoon halfway through his mouth, a dollop of chocolate teetering on the edge. Normally, his appeasing nature would’ve made him chastise your language if it was about any other person. However, it’s Gregory House. From the beginning of your treatment, you both have been proud members of the House Survivalist Club with a very active channel of weekly gossip, which mainly included cursing the blue eyed doctor to oblivion in your house.
Wilson sighs with a sardonic smile and sets the plastic cup down on the coffee table. “He is an asshole. Unfortunately, he’s also a medical genius. If anyone can drag your voice back out of your head, it’s him.” He then leans back against the cushions of your couch, gently nudging your knee to keep your attention. “I know it feels like hell right now, but he’s right about these things, even if his bedside manner makes you want to strangle him with his own stethoscope.”
Someone knocks on the door. You don’t hear the sound, but Wilson’s reaction tells you it’s probably a loud, incessant bang. The next minute, the front door clicks open and swings wide, unsurprisingly. House doesn’t believe in boundaries, let alone knocking and waiting like a civilized human being. He barges into your apartment, the collar of his winter coat turned up against the cold, a snowflake melting into his messy brown hair.
His striking blue eyes lock straight onto your figure sitting on the sofa wrapped in your blankets. He limps heavily toward you, the tip of his cane thudding rhythmically against your floor—a vibration you feel right in your core. He doesn’t seem angry; more like a man on a mission, fueled by a sudden burst of hyper-fixation. He hooks the handle of his cane over the back of a nearby chair and pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, flattening it out on the table right over your empty pudding cups, and you hold your breath. It’s a printout of an updated lab report.
House growls, leaning down so his gaze is level with yours. “The second MRI scan came back. The hematoma isn’t just draining, it’s shifting left. That means your sudden exhaustion isn’t just the meds, you’re having a localized toxic reaction to the breakdown of the blood cells right against the nerve pathway.”
Your heart sinks while reading the frantic movement of his lips. Wilson gets back on his feet in a minute, his face tight with sudden panic. “House…”
House waves him off, keeping his eyes glued to yours. “Dopey’s fine, but if we don’t clear that blockage in the next twelve hours, the tissue scars, and you can officially start practicing your finger-spelling for the rest of your life.” He reaches into his coat pocket again and now pulls out a massive, terrifyingly long syringe filled with a clear fluid.
You gulp instinctively, your jaw tightening in uncertainty of what’s gonna happen. Your hands move slowly, as if buying yourself time, “what are you going to—”
House looks at you challengingly, clearly satisfied at your rare display of hesitation. “We’re skipping the pills. Direct IV infusion of a high-potency osmotic diuretic, right here, right now.” He says casually, a dangerous, thrilled glint in his blue irises.
Silence.
“You’re not sticking that in me without sound proof I actually need it.” Wilson translates your signing as you continue firing silently, with a frown, “you think you will intimidate me with needles? I want another MRI to confirm you’re not just making that up to get back at me for having the balls to expose your ignorance.”
For a moment, it feels like the living room is going to explode at the smallest shift. Wilson is the first to speak, clearing his throat while stepping between you both, his tone soothing, “House, maybe…”
“Fine. We’ll have it your way.” House grunts, interrupting Wilson. He shoots you one last glance, which feels almost threatening, before limping away without saying goodbye. “Tomorrow at nine!” He slams the door shut, making you flinch at the strong vibration of the sound.
Wilson and you exchange a long look. He takes a deep breath and signs with a tiny, slightly pleased grin, “that was good.”
You snort and shrug, gathering the dirty dishes from the coffee table and gesticulating with your free hand, “you ate the last bite, you wash.”
Wilson only salutes you playfully. “Aye, aye, captain.”
Chapter III: The Decision
The third high-contrast MRI confirms a tiny, stubborn clot in the left perisylvian region. It’s old, organized and trapped in a precarious vascular web. Or so they keep telling you. Since pills alone aren’t working, House has been trying other non-invasive methods—not out of the goodness of his rotten heart, obviously, but per your unrelenting, unyielding requests.
The hyperbaric chamber around you is a thick, cylindrical vault of steel and weighty acrylic glass. Inside, the air is pressurized and completely, blissfully silent. You have no idea what it’s even supposed to do. Wilson explained it once, twice, until you gave up and decided to just go for it blindly. As if deaf and mute wasn’t enough.
Behind the glass pane, you can see the observation room. House is pacing like a caged wolf, his expression painted with fury. He slams his cane against the floor, his mouth moving in what appears to be a rapid tirade directed at Chase and Foreman. Meanwhile, you sit cross-legged on the cot inside the chamber, casually turning the page of your book. You’re aware your calmness drives him insane. Wilson has told you so on another occasion and right now, it’s rather noticeable. Every time you lock eyes with his giving those slow, serene blinks, a visible vein throbs in his forehead. He doesn’t want your compliance. He wants a reaction. He wants you to be as terrified of your own brain as he is obsessed with it.
And you’re just… not.
Eventually, the timer clicks down. The pressure equalizes with a long, soft hiss that vibrates through your seat and Thirteen opens the heavy hatch, offering you a hand out. When you lean forward to get up, House pushes past her, invading the decompression alcove. He plants his cane right next to your foot, standing so close into your space you can smell the stale coffee on him.
“You’re doing this on purpose.” He accuses, pointing a finger right at your nose. “You’re channeling your inner Buddha just to spike my blood pressure.”
You mouth, tilting your head with mock innocence, “what?”
“That clot is sitting in a vascular spiderweb, choking out your speech center, and you’re treating my million-dollar hyperbaric chamber like a day spa!” He snatches the book out of your hand—something he apparently loves to do—and glares at the cover, then tosses it over his shoulder. “The tissue around that clot is starting to suffocate and if it stays there another twenty-four hours, the damage becomes permanent. So, non-invasive is dead, Dopey. We have to go in. Localized intra-arterial micro-catheterization. Chase snakes a wire up through your femoral artery, into your brain and physically vacuums the clot out. Consent.”
Your eyes instinctively search Wilson’s, who promptly comes closer and holds up a small notepad. You write leisurely and show it to House. “Risks?”
House’s gaze darts across the page the second you lift it. He lets out a short, sharp breath through his nose, his posture stiffening. “Besides the obvious perk of permanent brain death?” He says, his jaw dancing with precision. “Risk number one: he punctures the vessel wall. You get an intracranial hemorrhage, your brain floods with blood, and you die on the table.” House steps a fraction closer, “risk number two: the wire hits the clot and instead of suctioning it out, it breaks it into three smaller pieces. Those pieces float deeper into the tissue. Best case scenario, you wake up unable to move the right side of your face. Worst case, you lose the ability to comprehend language entirely. Wilson will be talking to you and it will sound like static.”
He pulls a sleek black pen from his blazer pocket and drops it onto the notepad, right over your handwriting. You stare at it with a somber look. For the first time since this whole thing started, you feel it: the fear. Fear of never talking again. Fear of dying on the table. Fear of saying no to the procedure and living with the suffocating thoughts of ‘what if’.
You’re completely aloof as Wilson’s voice sounds decisive, loud and clear, “everybody out.” Once the small room is empty, he pulls up a chair next to your cot, yet the small, reassuring smile doesn’t quite hide his nerves. He gently takes the pen from the notebook and holds it out to you. “You know I’ll be right there the whole time.” When you don’t sign anything in return, he says more seriously, though still warmly, “sign the forms, (y/n).”
There is a long pause, then you swallow, your hands signing softly, “maybe being deaf isn’t as bad as whatever risks I’d be taking by doing this.”
“It’s not bad.” Wilson concedes readily. “Being deaf isn’t a tragedy. People live full, beautiful, incredibly rich lives in the deaf community. If this were just about your hearing, and you told me you wanted to walk out that door right now, I would pack your bags for you.” His brow furrows slightly, a touch of gravity creeping into his brown eyes. “But that’s not what this is. House wasn’t exaggerating about the tissue damage. It won’t just be silence. It will be confusion. You won’t be able to read the books you love, because the words won’t make sense anymore. You won’t be able to read my lips, because your brain won’t be able to translate the shapes into meaning.”
He reaches out, carefully placing his hand over yours, and you hold it back with all your might. “I’m scared”, you mouth, an involuntary sob escaping your throat as tears blur your vision.
Wilson picks up the black pen from the notepad once more and guides your fingers around it, with a fierce, deeply protective look. “I know. Do it scared.”
You glance down at the consent form, pressing the tip of the pen to the paper and signing your name as Wilson wipes your wet cheeks with his thumb. With another sob that turns into an annoyed, determined huff, you sign sharply, “if I die, House will have to learn ASL.”
Wilson laughs out loud and nods. “I’ll see to it.”
Chapter IV: The Surgery
The O.R. holding area is a blur of bright, sterile white and the frantic, silent movement of nurses prepping trays. You’re already prepped yourself, lying on the gurney with an IV line hooked into your arm. Wilson is standing a few feet away, talking to Chase, who is scrubbing in, and there’s House. He’s leaning against a crash cart near the door, looking entirely out of place in his wrinkled clothes among the sea of clean scrubs, chewing on a Vicodin and watching the monitors with a bored face.
While they start to wheel your gurney past him toward the double doors of the operating room, your fingers lock around his forearm. His eyes snap down to your hand, then up to your face, completely startled by the sudden physical contact—coming from you of all people. With whatever strength you have left due to the sedatives, you glance at him dead in the eye.
You mouth the words clearly, your digits translating the sentiment into the air between you. “Thank you anyway.”
His jaw tightens and he looks away for a split second, clearing his throat and muttering gruffly, “save your breath for when you can actually speak, Dopey.”
Despite the harshness in his words, he doesn’t pull his arm back until the orderlies delicately move the gurney forward. As the double doors of the O.R. swing shut, cutting off the view of the hallway, the last thing you see is House standing there, hands shoved deep into his pockets, glaring at the doors with unwavering focus. The anesthesia mask hovers over your face and a cool rush of air hits your lungs, your silent world fading into utter blackness.
Twenty-four hours later, you wake up slowly, barely able to hold your eyes open. With an unconscious shift, you grunt noiselessly, only for an excruciating pain to attack your head the next second. A powerless whimper rips your throat in reflex whilst you grasp the sheets beneath you in sheer agony.
It’s a white-hot, incapacitating throb radiating from the deep center of your brain to the back of your skull, the brutal aftershock of a wire being snaked through your cerebral arteries. Your fingers claw blindly at the stiff hospital bedclothes, bunching the fabric in your fists as you attempt to anchor yourself against the wave of nausea and ache. Instantly, a warm hand caps firmly over yours, loosening your death grip on the sheets.
“Hey, look at me.” Comes the soothing tone, sounding muffled, akin to traveling through a thick brick wall, but it’s there. You can hear the faint cadence of it. Through a bleary, tear-filled vision, you force your eyelids up. Wilson’s face comes into focus right above you. He looks exhausted, his surgical scrubs wrinkled. However, there’s a profound, overwhelming relief in his brow orbs at the sight of you awake and alert. “Chase got it out. You’re okay.” He mumbles, his voice breaking slightly as he pumps a button on the wall, signaling the nurse for immediate post-op pain meds.
A sudden, sharp clack rattles through the floorboards near the foot of your bed. House reaches out with his cane and unceremoniously taps the metal rail next to your body, letting you hear the metallic ding. You wince at the high-pitched sound—it feels like it’s shredding your ears, hitting your brain directly. A small, incredibly smug smile tugs at the corner of his mouth at your reaction.
“Welcome back to the noisy world, Dopey.”
You whine again, tugging Wilson’s sleeve urgently amidst a clumsy, weak sign, “it hurts.”
Wilson says softly, his voice sounding a little clearer to you now, though it still carries that strange, post-surgery echo, “the nurse is coming with the IV dilaudid right now. It’s going to kick in within a few seconds, I promise.”
“If it didn’t hurt, it would mean Chase accidentally lobotomized you. So, technically, your present agony is a glowing review of my diagnostic skills.”
House lets out a characteristic rough grunt after his own words, leaning both hands on the head of his walking cane. His raspy texture somehow fits the image you had of him up until now. Although, his usual biting sarcasm seems to have dialed back but a fraction. Just then, a nurse steps up to the IV pole, swiftly injecting a syringe into your line. Within moments, the weighty warmth floods through your veins. That agonizing pain in your skull begins to dull, melting into a velvety numbness. Your grip on Wilson's sleeve loosens and your eyelids instantly feel three times heavier.
“Hold on, Dopey.” House clutches your arm to interrupt your dozing off, which prompts a glare from Wilson. He ignores it and moves closer, manic blue orbs waiting for your compliance. “Give me one real word before you go.”
Wilson is halfway through cussing him out when you moan gently, each rasp making the pain in your brain hit back weakly, fighting off the numbing factor of the meds, “geniuses…” They both stop their silent bickering suddenly, waiting for your conclusion. You breathe deeply and gulp, your voice coming out strained, but clear as water, “should… know… ASL.”
A small smirk rests on your dried lips afterwards. Wilson’s eyes are widened in absolute, comical shock. He looks from you to House, a massive, breathless grin breaking across his own lips. He lets out a sharp, emotional laugh, burying his face in his hand for a brief second before staring back down at you with pure adoration.
House scoffs, his piercing gaze crinkling at the corners. With a final tap of his cane against the floorboards, he turns on his heel and limps out of the recovery room, his coat billowing behind him. Once the door swings shut, you hear the distant sound of his uneven footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving you in the quiet comfort of the room, with Wilson still holding your palm.
Huh.
There goes a whole month of learning a new language.
Chapter V: The Check-up
As the days go by, you choose to keep communicating mainly through signing. You’ve been wearing ear protection because of the present hyper-acusis nightmare your hearing is at the moment—every clattering tray or dropped pen sounds like a gunshot, thoug it means the nerves are alive—which makes your world, once upon a time so immensely silent, now bury each sound under a thick, heavy blanket. And speaking still doesn’t come easy. Your brain acts as if you’re sinking a sharp knife in it every time you try to get a word out of your throat, so you’ve been saving them up.
The sterile glare of the clinic exam room feels a little less intimidating these days, too. After finishing your weekly check up, you shoot House an attentive look. He’s sitting on his rolling stool, idly spinning a reflex hammer between his fingers. Despite not being exactly friends, the two of you have mostly stopped arguing like epic nemesis, if only for the sake of your slow recuperation. Every now and then, however, you simply can’t miss the opportunity to tease him.
You hum, pointing at the rumpled, hopelessly creased fabric of his gray blazer. “I-R-O-N”, your fingers spell swiftly.
The low vibration catches his eye, his gaze flicking up from the medical chart. He lets out a short, dry breath through his nose—his version of a laugh, glancing back and forth between his clothes and you for a second. He leans back, resting his hands on the handle of his cane, his words coming with that exaggerated clarity he uses just for you.
“Ironing is a conspiracy invented by the textile industry to make men feel inadequate.” He rolls the stool a few inches closer, assessing the way you hold yourself, checking for any subtle signs of neurological fatigue. “The spelling is good, your fine motor skills are sharp, but you’re hiding behind your fingers again.” When he touches his own jaw, challenging you with a tilt of his head, you can’t help but sneer, already anticipating his next sentence. “Let’s hear it, Dopey.”
With an annoyed sigh, you relent, wincing as your brain works overtime to thread two small words, “it’s… painful.” You sign this time, mouthing along with a tiny grin to ease the tension, “I got the words and you still can’t sign for shit, though.”
His diagnostic eyes follow the slight tension in your chin closely when you force the vocal cords to cooperate. He doesn’t dismiss it, after all, he knows the mental bandwidth it takes to rebuild those neural pathways. Still, as your hands start moving, translating the quick, sharp tease, House lets out a genuine bark of laughter. Your absolute refusal to let him have the upper hand is astonishing. You blink once, taken aback by the sight and the loud, uncharacteristic sound coming from him.
“Why would I learn an entire language just to talk to one person?" He fires back with crisp, theatrical precision. “That’s just a terrible return on investment. Besides, as a cripple myself, I don’t really have the spare bandwidth for finger gymnastics. Look at me. My hands are constantly busy.”
“Sure”, you sign with a quiet, unconvinced snort.
House rolls the stool back over to the desk, tossing your medical chart into the bin with a thud. “Nerves are lazy. If you keep signing, your brain will just let the vocal pathways atrophy because it’s easier”, he says, his tone shifting into something almost resembling a real doctor’s advice. “Tomorrow, you speak. Even if you sound like a broken robot.”
Your eyes accompany his movements when he turns back to you, your faces a few inches apart. You patiently reach out to take his palm and he freezes, the incoming sarcastic retort dying on his lips instantly. Then, you manipulate his clumsy, stiff fingers into a simple shape—two hands meeting at an angle, forming the peak of a roof.
A house.
“That’s… you.” You rasp with a smile, holding his gaze for a long minute.
House doesn’t pull his hand away, much like that moment before your surgery a few days ago. He merely stares at your unbothered face, his digits memorizing the form of his own name in the silent language he pretended to despise. You, on the other hand, don’t wait around for him to recover, standing up and stepping out into the white wall hallway without another word.
House stays behind, glancing down at his own hands. Slowly, he traces the roof-shape of the sign into the empty air, absorbed in the lesson you left. Ultimately, he also knows when he lost the battle.
The ghost of an honest grin paints his mouth as he grumbles to himself, reaching for his cane, “touché, Dopey.”
summary: You encounter Frank again. And he’s unsurprisingly not happy about it.
warnings: swearing, angst, fluff-ish, smut if you squint
words: 2.4k
notes: continuation to this. could be read as a standalone though. based on the cutie cutie song pulo, pulo by jorge ben jor. enjoy x
“Knock, knock.”
Frank narrows his eyes at the sultry voice coming from the other side of the front door. The rush that left his hairs standing on end a few nights ago resurges, going up his spine and causing him to gulp in reflex with the sheer amount of effort he has to put in himself to contain it. He scrambles for his gun only to remember it’s sitting carefully hidden inside his safe in the bedroom. He swears under his breath and freezes when he hears your honeyed tone again, now in his ear:
“Open up, Adam.”
Frank grumbles, marching toward his door and slamming it open. “Fucking shit—”
He blinks, taken aback by your state. There’s absolutely nothing of the femme fatale, despite the familiar mischief in your words just now. You are covered in blood—his guess wouldn’t be human, considering how thick and dark it looks—from head to toe, your fangs showing precariously under your bloody lips, the ones once so meticulously painted with another shade of red. Less dramatic, of course. Frank tries to speak, yet any statement of fact dies in his throat at the visceral sight of you. He steps aside to let you in, shutting the door behind him with a decisive thud.
“Thank you.” You hug your own body, seeming self-conscious of your appearance.
“No trouble. Now, talk.” Frank shows his palms in an impatient, though appeasing, gesture. “Because you look like you ran into an alligator and he lost the fight, sweetheart.”
“More like a snake.” You snort humourlessly, looking around his apartment before turning back to him. “My uncle and I had a fight, yes. I usually don’t respond to his provocations, but tonight I decided enough was enough.”
Frank lets out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “The family feud again. Fuck, what, you want me to put in a good word for you? Pretty fucking sure I’m on borrowed time as much as you here.” He leisurely walks toward the sofa, grabbing a neatly folded sweatshirt and handing it to you. “Go, go on, clean up. We’ll talk more when you’re not ruining my carpet with vampire goo.”
The bathroom door clicks shut. Frank stares at the dark stains on his hardwood floor, his chest heaving. He can still smell it—coppery, old, and viscous. Beneath the blood, that invisible tether is pulling at his ribs, dragging his focus right back to the closed door. He can’t help but wonder why, in your little vampire dial list, his name was the winner. Surely you weren’t expecting him to save your ass against Kristof, seeing as you could easily handle the old bastard by yourself anyway. Or that’s what Frank desperately wants to think. He’s had enough from this family’s drama to last a lifetime.
When you return, the scent of his cheap lavender soap is mixed with the heavy, hypnotic weight of your presence. The dark vampire blood is gone too, however, the skin under your collarbone is marred by deep, jagged punctures that are sluggishly knitting themselves back together. His sweatshirt hangs off one of your shoulders. You look uncharacteristically small compared to him, no matter the intoxicating gravity you still hold.
You step into his space and mumble, completely ignoring the physical boundary he’s trying so hard to maintain, “you’re still shaking.”
Frank tenses up, his knuckles locking at his sides as he tries to fight the fog rolling into his brain. “I don’t like uninvited guests, that’s all. Especially the ones who bring a body count with ‘em.”
“The only body I brought with me is my own.” You hiss, growing tired of his wariness. You had your own shitty day. “You’re a target too, you know? You should know better than to trust Lazaar.”
“Because you say so?” He scoffs, blue eyes hardened behind his glasses. He lowers his voice, his glower deepening, “what do you really want from me?”
“I need you.” You sigh, crossing your arms and shooting him a skeptical glance. “I know, I know, sounds stupid. But I really don’t have anyone else to go to.”
Frank holds your gaze for a few seconds, scratching his temple to buy himself time to think. Fair enough. He never actually believed Lazaar was going to keep his word after he got the kidnap money, which is why he had arranged plane tickets for a rather indefinite-timed vacation in Honduras next week. However, now that you just gave him evidence Kristof’s vampire-family business is crumbling from the inside, first with Abigail’s death, then with you barely making it out alive… Suffice to say, Frank’s not exactly relieved. In fact, it means Lazaar’s most definitely really fucking pissed and really fucking desperate after losing control of his assets—and that equation involves him directly. He lets out another heavy curse under his breath. Great. Now he has got to make one more deal.
Fucking shit.
Whilst Frank processes the new information, you take a seat on the couch and hug your knees. Your fights with Lazaar often made you shaky afterwards, but this time, you only felt a deep sense of freedom. No more begging for scraps of his attention, no more doing his dirty work in foolish hopes of finally getting him to love you. The leather creaks with Frank’s weight beside you, pulling you out of your thoughts.
You purse your lips. “Was it you the one who killed Abigail?”
He doesn’t answer right away, resting his arms on the back of the sofa, keeping a deliberate distance from you. “It was him.”
“Huh. That cold fucker.” You shake your head slightly. “You really helped a guy kill his own kid?”
Frank’s scowl remains unchanged, his words clipped, “she was hardly innocent.”
“Men.” You smile bitterly, staring at the ceiling and leaning back, mirroring his stance. “You’re all the fucking same.”
“Oh, don't give me that saintly bullshit.” He spits, the leather creaking again as he shifts, turning his head to glare at you. “I was a contractor. A guy hired to do a job. You think I wanted to spend my weekend dodging a pint-sized psycho in a tutu? Your uncle is the one who put a hit out on his own flesh and blood and just tried to drain you like a Capri Sun. If you’re looking for a monster, princess, look at your family tree, not me.”
You don’t flinch. If anything, the ugly truth of his words only make the weight in your heart feel heavier. “I know what they are. Why do you think I’m sitting on a cheap sofa in a corrupt ex-cop’s apartment?”
“I’m a businessman.” He continues, his tone sharp, unbothered by your insult. Regardless of being this close to punching his face, you let him finish his piece. “Right now, the business we’re both in is called not dying.” He leans forward, azure orbs dead-locked on yours. “Lazaar killed Abigail because she was a liability he couldn’t control anymore. If you just walked out on him, you’re a liability too. And me? I’m the guy who knows too much and has a bank account full of his cash.” He pauses, looking away and clenching his jaw. “As it would appear, we’re the two highest priorities on his hit list right now. So you can sit here and judge my moral character all you want: unless we figure out a way to get out of this city tonight, we’re both going to end up in a ditch.”
There’s a long moment of silence. Your serious expression slowly morphs into one of pure smugness, your mouth stretched in a wide, satisfied grin. “So you will help me.”
Frank rolls his eyes and stands up, growling as he leaves, “don’t push it.”
You can hear him rummaging through something in his bedroom, the muffled sounds of his silent curses causing you to smile to yourself as he seems not to find what he was looking for. His heavy steps approach the living room with his usual confidence, and his attire is comically different from a few minutes before; combat boots, black clothes, matched with a beanie and a backpack hooked on his shoulder.
You let out a sarcastic, thoroughly amused whistle. “Wow. Superhero gear, I presume?”
Frank glares daggers at you. “If you’re gonna be this insufferable all the time, I’m already rethinking this whole—”
“Oh, cheer up, will you? I’m the one who just had to fight off a freaking vampire gangster to save my skin.”
He huffs, casually adjusting the gun in his pants. “Right, you, the damsel in distress—give me a fucking break.” Frank stops what he’s doing. His cynical blue eyes scan you up and down, taking in the ridiculous discrepancy of the scene: him, preparing for the worst and you, slouched back on the couch wearing only his sweatshirt, furiously unbothered by the situation. A nervous, fake laugh leaves his throat. “Your sweet uncle is on a rampage wanting to kill everybody in his path, which supposedly made you come here seeking my help, and you’re just sitting there looking like… this?” The indignation in the last word is dangerously close to announcing itself as blatant sexual frustration, but he reigns it in just in time.
Except you caught it. His lingering stare on your legs is rather obvious. Another smirk creeps in your lips and Frank swallows thickly, looking away. You move to face him properly, watching him fidget with his backpack strap to check its length unnecessarily. “Come here, Frank.” You command softly, mapping his reaction.
Frank gulps and keeps his gaze on the floor, dropping his hands to the sides and bowling them into fists. His jaw is set painfully, his breathing becoming shallower by the minute. There it comes again; the pull. It’s resemblant to a magnetic force, drawing him nearer naturally if he doesn’t use all his strength to stop it. You tilt your head, mildly impressed by his effort.
“Look at you. A man with a strong mind. Now, that I don’t see everyday.” You muse, raising your brows.
“Stop it. Just fucking—stop this shit!” Frank snarls, lunging in your direction and pulling you to your feet with ease. He grabs your arms harshly, shaking you a bit, completely blind by rage. “Stop this fucking… whatever this bullshit is that you make me feel! We gotta focus here.”
You eye him silently, unfazed by his emotional outburst. “I’m not doing anything. Your desire is yours, Adam.” Your voice sings sweetly, making him shake his head as if somehow trying to get rid of the spell.
“Stop. Stop calling me that.” He growls, staring at your alluring eyes. Frank lets out an unsteady breath, his fingertips sinking into the sweatshirt you’re wearing. He whispers once more, this time at the verge of a breakdown, “stop.”
You let your hands slide up his chest tauntingly, the tips of your fingers resting against the pulse point roaring in his neck. His skin is blazing hot compared to yours. “Why?” You murmur, leaning in close enough for your own breath to fan over his trembling lips. “Because it reminds you that you’re human? That you’re not just some cold-blooded contractor?”
Frank’s jaw tightens so hard a muscle leaps in his cheek. For a second, anger and desire blur into something purely feral. He doesn’t let go; his hold only tightens, pinning you against his chest as if trying to prove he still has some semblance of control. “Don’t play with me”, he snaps, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register whilst his icy orbs pierce through yours. “You keep pushing me like this and neither of us is making it out of this apartment.”
“You talk too much.”
Frank opens his mouth to protest, nevertheless, you devour his lips in a swift movement. He moans loudly, searching your hips with his hands to dig his fingernails with all his might, like a thirsty dying man finding fresh water in the middle of the desert. He deepens the contact and tilts his head as much as it is humanly possible just to feel every single inch of you inside his mouth, his restless tongue assaulting you shamelessly, still quietly roaring with the rage from moments ago, yet deeply bathed in lust.
You match his ferocity, your fingers tangling in the knit fabric of his beanie, pulling him down until the room feels like it’s spinning. Frank groans into you again, a sound of utter defeat, his tactical vest pressing hard against your body as he pins you back on the kitchen counter. For a second, the impending threat of Lazaar ceases to exist. There is only the scorching heat of the kiss and the desperate, bruising grip of his hands on your skin.
After a few minutes of aggressive makeout, it’s Frank who eventually breaks away, gasping for air as though he’d just surfaced from underwater. He doesn’t step back, his forehead pressed heavily on yours. His glasses are crooked as he pants, “fuck…” He then gulps, his hands trembling on your hips, refusing to let go just yet. “Fucking... shit.” He lets out a breathless, uneven laugh, shaking his head. “You’re gonna get me killed. Literally.”
You chuckle along with him, cupping his face gently. “I better get ready…”
Frank follows your lips on pure instinct, a desperate, pathetic whimper catching in his throat before he nods. “Right, yeah… Survival plan.” The fog in his brain is a thick, unshakeable wall, and he looks at you with a mix of intense longing and sheer, unadulterated fury at what just transpired in the middle of this fucking chaos. “I’ll, uh, find you something proper to wear. Hold on.”
Frank’s gone again and you sigh, catching a glimpse of the window. There are some blue pansies arranged carefully inside a vase, ready to open up at the first rays of sunshine painting the sky. You approach and close the blinds, taking one of the flowers and smelling it with a little smile. It seemed you weren’t to be alone anymore and neither was Adam. In all your centuries roaming the earth, never had you encountered this feeling. You didn’t even think it existed, but the hammering in your chest was proof enough.
I’ll kill young Spencer if you say anything in front of them. If you send a text or if the police show up, I’ll kill him. I think you know I’m not bluffing. I’m in control. I don’t know what you think you’re doing.
JOSH HARTNETT as COOPER ADAMS
in TRAP (2024) dir. M. Night Shyamalan
summary: Frank is rarely surprised these days. Until you come along.
warnings: swearing (its frank)
words: 1.3k
notes: am i late to the party? enjoy x
Life has never been fucking sweeter.
Managing to survive the little weird fucking Antichrist girl was sweet enough, borderline impossible, but actually getting the abduction money from a deal with her fucking Antichrist father? Absolute power move. Though, to his own credit, Frank wasn’t really that surprised he managed to do that. His mates back in the police force didn’t call him “Dealer” for no reason. He could get a deal out of everything. Literally.
“Earth to Frank.” His buddy, Austin, raises his thick brows at him, snapping his fingers twice. “Where did you go for a second there, man?”
Despite the minor interruption, Frank’s eyes stay glued to the figure who just entered the café. It’s you; wearing all black, a striking gaze hidden behind your irises, cherry lips and a crooked smile that seems to pull him into a deep trance. He swallows. He actually swallows. Him, the most insufferable, full-of-himself, arrogant bastard who ever set foot on this planet.
Austin frowns immediately at the strange behaviour. “What, you ain’t got laid that long?” He snorts.
This time Frank finally turns his attention back to his friend, blinking. “Sorry, what?”
“You almost followed the lady like a goddamn cartoon smelling food.” Austin murmurs, genuinely amused by the sight.
Frank still places you with his blue, attentive orbs, but more controlled now. “Huh. Whatever. Yeah, things have been hectic since the Abigail girl. I haven’t had much time for sex.” He shrugs it off, sipping his espresso slowly.
Austin grunts in acknowledgement, “so, as I was saying, Lazaar’s assets will be delivered at this address…”
Come the night, Frank kicks the door shut into his apartment and locks it with a practiced motion. He’s fucking knackered. His footsteps are heavy and unhurried toward the kitchen, his blue eyes reading over the mail, distracted. He inspects his fridge in search of anything edible and finds none. No surprise there. With a brief sigh, he drops the mail over the countertop and orders some Italian on his phone, turning his heels back to the living room.
Then he hears a quiet sound and his whole body tenses up. Frank pulls out his gun and removes the safety, keeping his breathing to a minimum. He walks backwards quietly before turning to face the empty kitchen again, which makes his confused frown deepen. Could the damn girl have found out where he lives? Fucking shit. He should’ve known better than to take a fucking vampire’s word at face value.
After a long moment of silence and no sign of the demonic ballerina appearing, he relaxes his shoulders ever so slightly. He keeps his weapon aimed up at the walls, just in case, as he reaches out to grab the mail he left on the counter with his free hand. It was probably some rat causing trouble in the ceiling. He’d had to find a better fucking place once Lazaar’s payments…
“You look anxious.” You murmur in his ear, cutting his trail of thought, and Frank jolts as if he’d been burned. The sensation of your voice touching his skin was certainly akin to it. A soft chuckle escapes your red lips and you add with a smirk, finding his reaction different from the other humans who are met with your spell, “don’t be.”
“What the fucking—” He scoffs and points his gun directly at your chest, his hands already shaking, his bloodstream bathed in pure adrenaline. “How the fuck did you get in my house?!”
“I’m not here to hurt you.” You take a step closer and he backtracks in reflex, causing you to raise your hands in surrender. “Really. Calm down.”
“Explain why you broke into my house. Now.” His authoritative tone comes back as he grips his weapon tightly, his jaw set.
“You know my uncle...”
“Quit the fucking prologue!” He snaps.
You narrow your eyes dangerously for a split second, eventually relenting. “Kristof. The guy you made a deal with? He’s my unc and honestly, you’d be better off with the devil.” You can’t help but scoff.
Frank doesn’t react at first, though he is, in fact, quite fucking taken aback by the revelation. His finger hesitates over the trigger one last moment before he puts down the pistol reluctantly. “Huh. What the fuck are you doing here, then? My deal is with him. Not you, princess.”
“Mmm. Wrong answer.” You say lightly, your eyes filled with amusement at his simple reasoning.
Frank gives you a skeptical look, yet a shiver goes up his spine as he scans you up and down. You’re wearing the same black outfit from earlier in the café, the one which shows off your curves rather clearly. And those eyes of yours, they seem to imprison him this close. His pants suddenly feel a bit uncomfortable.
He gulps and takes a deep breath, trying to ground himself in reality. “What do you want, princess? And make it quick, ‘cause I’m on a fucking schedule.”
“What I want?” You quip, brows raised, walking leisurely toward him. “More like… what I need.” Your hot air reaches his face and his mouth hangs open. He’s unable to move or speak, the blue irises but a thin ring around his dilated pupils. Your smile only widens, your next words coming out honeyed. He’s falling just like all the other men, regardless of how much he fights it. But it’s cute that he tries. You whisper, “aren’t you gonna ask me what that is, Adam?”
Frank scowls faintly, doing his best to overcome the trance-like state you’ve put him in. “How do you know that name?”
“I know it because we’re meant to be.” You hum, the tip of your nose rubbing against his stubbled cheek weakly. His breath hitches violently and he grips the edge of the counter behind him until his knuckles turn white. You gently remove the gun from his hand, letting it hit the floor with a loud thud. You hold his gaze unblinking. “Say it.”
He hisses, his feelings a mix of annoyance and anticipation. “Say what?”
“What you want me to do.”
“I…” Frank closes his eyes firmly, the sound dying in his throat. “I want…”
“(y/n)!” A growl descends upon the both of you, and you scramble to get away from Frank. It’s your uncle, Kristof, and he’s pissed. He glares at you, showing his fangs threateningly. “What have I said about toying with my business partners, you unruly child?”
You keep your head down, shrinking completely in the presence of him. “I am sorry, uncle. I was just playing games.”
Frank, who remains a bit shaky, his blue eyes alert and utterly lost in the middle of the family feud, lets out a disbelieved laugh. “Playing games. Right. Fucking right.”
“I apologize for my niece’s… terrible manners, Frank.” Kristof mutters in a low baritone, casting one more disapproving glance at your direction. You flinch as he sinks his sharp nails into your cheek just enough for you to feel the pressure. “And you. We are going home. Now.” He lets go harshly, making you stumble backwards.
Kristof walks away and you move to follow, not without shooting Frank a small smirk and a wink. “I had fun, Adam.”
His real name leaving your entrancing lips makes him step back unconsciously, the spell dragging him closer to you against his will for a minute. It fades away once when you vanish through his front door. The trance is gone by the time his food arrives. He blinks and takes the order, paying the guy on autopilot and locking himself inside again with a deep, tired sigh.
Frank stares around his now empty apartment and rips the paper bag impatiently, letting out another bitter, ironic snicker as he strolls to the sofa. “Fucking vampires.”
You used to be a cop. It’s the stance. The walk. The shoes. Not to mention the standard-issue Glock, the shoulder holster, and he used police hand signals back at the house. Not a street cop. No. Too smart. You need to be in control. So I’m gonna say detective. Homicide or vice. And he tries to hide it, but he’s from Queens. Probably only been up here a few years.
DAN STEVENS as FRANK
in ABIGAIL (2024) dir. Matt Bettinelli-Olpin & Tyler Gillett
2087
ellievsbear
discoholicmusic
pixelskylines
areudirty
