Taken from that one Reddit post but. Simon with a deaf!reader. He’s had his nose broken so many times, his nasal passageways are like a labyrinth. Of course he snores like an absolute chainsaw. And when the 141 is staying in a safe house together Soap thinks it’s a bit hilarious.
“Dinnae ken how ye sleep through the night without yer wife smotherin’ ye with a pillow after the first 10 minutes.”
“The missus says she happens to like my purring, thank you very much.”
And it’s true. You cuddle him and lay your head on his chest so you can feel all of the vibrations.
hii !! I have a request <3 it's totally fine if u don't wanna do it, but I'd love to see smth like deaf!reader x steve
like, reader does have a hearing aid and all that, but still struggles ykwim :/ like steve taking care of her, with the aid... idk how to explain this idea sorry if it's vague
I wear a hearing aid and idk it'll be nice and comforting to read smth like that <3
I love your work !! take care and have a good day <333 (English is not my first language, I'm sorry)
I really liked this request so I did a bit of research because I'm not really familiar with hearing aids and how they work, so please please let me know if it's factually/medically incorrect in any way and I'll do my best to change it! I love you angel ♡
Steve harrington x deaf!reader ❀ 829 words
You curl into Steve's side in bed, head tucked comfortably in the crook between his chin and his shoulder, eyes closed, just breathing and basking in the morning light.
His left arm is curled under you, fingers splayed out on your abdomen, thumb brushing at the skin just above your belly button. He's still half-asleep, you think, at least he was last time you checked, and you check again by blinking one eye open and peering up at him.
Your boyfriend's eyes are half-lidded, but he is very much awake now, eyes fixed on your features. "Morning, sweetheart," he says slowly, and you read his lips, you've gotten very good at his tells, because your hearing aids aren't in yet.
His hands are on you, and he seems like he doesn't want to take them off your skin to sign, which makes a smile tug at your lips despite yourself.
"Morning, Steve," you murmur back, settling back against his chest. You feel him press a kiss to the top of your head, letting his lips linger, pulling you more firmly to his front.
You feel the vibration of his pleased hum rather than hear it as he shifts you to lay between his legs, head on his chest, so he can use his hands to sign to you on your stomach. "Are you still up for meeting Nancy and Robin today?" He signs.
After you watch his hand movements, you nod. "Yeah. They really want to watch the new Superman." You let your eyes flutter shut for a second before opening them again. "Will you drop me?" you sign to him, tilting your chin back to your can see his face.
Steve nods, a smile of his own tilting his lips upwards as he looks down at you, pressing a Spiderman upside-down kiss to your lips, and you feel so happy you could cry.
You put on your hearing aids just before you leave, after having decided on your outfit, much to Steve's annoyance about not being able to join girl's day, because in his words (or rather, sign), he needs to protect you from Clark Kent's advances, you're that stunning.
You'd giggled and let him pepper you with kisses all down your jaw and your neck, even leaving a little hickey just under your ear which you'd glared at him for, but your look had no malice.
Steve opens the passenger door of his Beamer for you, helping you in and flashing you a charming grin that makes you kind of want to stay at home in bed with him all day. As he drives, unless he's shifting gears, he keeps one hand on your thigh.
He notices how you're starting to feel uncomfortable as soon as you do. The traffic is loud, jarring, almost, and you squirm a little in the passenger seat, the sounds feeling entirely unbearable. which only makes his brow furrow with concern. "Sweetheart?" He tries softly. "Is it too loud, hm?"
You only manage a tiny nod, squeezing his hand on your thigh, and he lets you, turning his hand over so you can play with his fingers like you do when you're overstimulated.
When you reach a red light, he turns to you, lifting his hands to sign so as to not make the overstimulation worse. "How about you take the aids off and we can reschedule with the girls?" He signs, brown eyes so soft with care that you feel your heart warm. "Another day, when you're feeling better. We can spend the day at home."
How does Steve always know exactly what you need before you do? You're not sure, but you nod, already taking the aids off and sighing at the bliss that you instantly feel.
"There we go," he signs, the worry on his features dissipating just a little. "I think the movie would've made it worse, right?"
"Yes," you sign, directing your attention back to his hands when the light turns green and he has to focus back on the road, no matter how much he wants to say screw it and stare at you the whole drive.
He pulls into the driveway and has to reluctantly untangle his hand from yours to come around the car and get you.
"Are you feeling better?" He signs as soon as he gets you to sit on the couch, kneeling in front of you, hands on your thighs. When you nod and give him a reassuring smile, he continues, "How about I make you some tomato soup? Want me to grab your sketchbook while you wait?"
"Yes, please," you sign back, heart so warm and full at this boy who gives you everything you want and need. "Thank you. I love you."
Steve smiles, standing up and pressing a kiss to your temple, pulling away to sign, "you don't ever have to thank me. I love you too, baby."
Don’t startle his partner, and you won’t have a problem with the king of pop.
You were born deaf, something you couldn’t help but hate at first. Although it came in handy when you started modeling as a deaf African American, showing courage while you showcase how being deaf doesn’t bring you down when you get older.
And with your influence, you gained the attention and love of Michael Jackson.
He learned sign language whenever your hearing aids needed batteries.
He told people from the press not to grab you cause you still couldn’t hear much even with hearing aids.
He told them strictly, and he said that most times in interviews.
“Don’t grab them. They get startled easily and it’s rude.”
That’s all he says.
So when someone grabbed you while you were trying to walk with him to the guard as Bill was behind you directly.
“Y/n! Y/n! Look over here!” Paparazzi called out, and of course, you couldn’t hear him or the others taking pictures of you. And that’s when everything went loose.
The male then grabbed you, making you yelp out of shock.
Bill pushed the man back quickly, not wasting time to secure you from the people and flashing lights.
Michael pulled you close, feeling your body shake against his own as another bodyguard escorted you two into the car.
When calmed down, you see Michael talking. But it was slow, you read, “read my lips. You are okay. You’re safe.” He said.
The car starts to drive, and Michael couldn’t help but roll the windows down at the paparazzi trying to keep up. You can’t see his lips or hear him, but by the clenched jaw and pointing.
You can tell he’s pissed.
When he rolls the window back up, he’s really angry, his hands on his face while he tries to calm down.
He turns to you, too stunned with anger, and he signs to you, “That was disrespectful.”
You could only nod, knowing that the paparazzi is fully gonna have a problem with the king of pop.
happy the pitt thursday i guess im just gonna write a blurb every thursday until the season ends! (don't hold me to that)
dr robby x hard of hearing!younger!reader
and another thing, fuck ai (but i do love dr al-hashimi she's growing on me)//
you've been focusing on your breathing for less than two minutes. you know that. you're sitting at the hub, a half finished chart staring at you.
your head is killing you. but worse than that, there's a painful ringing in your ears. what little you can hear is blurring together, making it impossible to focus.
which, is pretty much the story of your fucking life.
your hand comes up to your ears, and you turn off your hearing aids, before pulling them off your ears.
the ringing is still there, but the extra noise is gone. your eyes flutter shut, and your hands clasp together, your hearing aids between your palms-- holding very gently, sensitive little buggers-- and you rest your forehead on your hands.
you reflect on the day, thinking about your seven your old with a 3rd degree burn. you think about your forty eight year old with a head laceration in central seven, and you think about the twenty nine year old that you got killed. well, if anyone heard you say that, they'd remind you that no one could've prevented that heart attack.
you want to cry.
but you have a feeling that if you cry, you wouldn't stop and you still have hours to go.
a hand on your shoulder makes you jump, and you open your eyes-- you glance up and your eyes soften when you see robby. your stupid, twice your age, motorcycle riding boyfriend. your boyfriend who's abandoning you to go on a three month trip. you try not to think about it.
'everything okay?' he signs.
'yeah. my head kind of hurts. tinnitus is a bitch.' you sign back. robby offers you a sympathetic smile.
'i'm sorry.' he signs back .
'not your fault.'
'want to hear a secret?' you nod, and robby gets this look on his face. 'you're really beautiful.'
you roll your eyes, but smile anyways.
'don't try to flatter me, old man.' then, your hands move and you're picking up your hearing aids before putting them back on. you turn them on, and now on top of the ringing and extra noise, there's a light buzzing, but you know that'll go away when your ears readjust.
"catching up on charting?" the newly familiar voice of dr. al-hashimi breaches your ears. "i didn't know you two knew sign language." she says, and you shrug.
"well, now you do." you smile, because you really do like her-- she's a good teacher, she's obviously qualified and competent. but you don't make it a habit to have your first conversation with someone be about your being Deaf. "i'm fluent, but robby's just picked up a few things since we've been working together."
robby started learning sign language after your first date. he's pretty good. but, that would maybe tip people off to the fact that after a long shift, the two of you can't keep your hands off each other.
"that is good information to know." she smiles, and you turn back to your charts, and she continues, "you know, if you're having trouble catching up on your charting, you can use my ai app to help it go faster. it's shown to improve all around patient and doctor satisfaction." she says, and you know she's just trying to be helpful, that she obviously sees you as a valuable resident, and that she truly has faith in those words.
but robby has listened to many, many rants about your loathing for generative ai. his eyes flick between the two of you, and he wants to grab the nearest person to him, nudge them and tell them to watch what's about to happen.
"while i really do appreciate your insight, dr al-hashimi, and your passion for the ways ai can be used in medicine," you start, closing out your chart and standing up, turning to face her, a very polite smile on your face, "i prefer to do my own charting, even if it takes longer and it cuts into my off hours. i understand that some ai can be helpful with things like preemptive detection, but i also know that generative ai not only deteriorates your critical thinking skills, ai data centers are often strategically placed in both low income areas, and in communities largely populated by people of color, using an excess amount of water and energy that negatively impacts those communities." you shrug to her, with your hands in your pockets. "but i encourage everyone to do what works for them, as long as they let me do what works for me. i gotta go check on my burn in pedes." you tell both robby and al-hashimi.
as you walk away, whitaker approaches al-hashimi with a question, and robby follows you towards the vending machine. sugar surely will make you feel better.
"i want to tell you how impressed i am with the restraint you just showed." robby's voice is teasing, and you roll your eyes.
"i was thirty seconds away from telling her i couldn't hear her." you scoff, and it makes him snort. "but i like her. i just can't stand her ai thing," you mumble, reaching to your pocket to put money into the vending machine, but robby is quicker than you are--
he's swiping his card and pressing the buttons for your soft drink of choice before you can even stop him.
"you're bold today." you observe, "feeling cocky before your sabbatical?" you wonder, and he just shakes his head.
"i just wanna help you feel better. what else is wrong?" he wonders, and you want to tell him you can't stop thinking about the patient you lost, but you don't. instead, you start to ramble about something that doesn't matter.
"i lost my fucking chapstick this morning." you grumble, opening the soda, taking a sip and continuing, "and i can't stop chewing at my lip, so it's all fucked and, mm--"
robby places a kiss to your lips before you can continue, and it's only momentary, but it's enough for you to taste his own chapstick. you blush a deep red and your eyes dart around, trying to see if anyone was around to see that.
but luckily, the vending machine is in a dark corner of your beloved ed.
"better?" he asks, and you huff.
"i know you're going on sabbatical for three months and you have some sort of mission to cause as much trouble as possible before you leave," you start, "but i still have to come into work tomorrow and be around these people. i would rather not have them think i'm fucking my boss."
"you are fucking your boss." he reminds, and you give him the same sort of trouble making smile he always gives you.
"no, i'm not. dr. al-hashimi and i are just friends, dr. robinavitch." you tease right back, "and given that you're leaving me to go ride your death trap of a bike, i feel like that wasn't nearly as low of a blow as it could've been."
robby looks at you for a long time. like he's trying to figure you out.
you lick your lips, holding your soda can in your hand.
"what is that," you start, licking your lips again, "strawberry?"
"cherry." robby answers, and hands you his chapstick. you look at him. "consider it a parting gift." he shrugs.
you take the chapstick from him.
"shouldn't you get me something more expensive? like, jewelry, or something?" you wonder, and robby just gives you one of his signature, 'hmmph's, before nodding over in the general direction of pedes.
"don't act so spoiled, sweetheart." he says, "c'mon, let's go check on your burn wound, huh?" and you have to speed walk to catch up with his long legs.
the truth is that robby does have a more expensive parting gift for you-- in a small block box at the bottom of his backpack. no, it's not a ring-- it's these earrings that hang off your hearing aids, silver, with moon and star charms, from this company called 'deafmetal'. robby intends to give it to you after your shift, and then fuck you as many times a he can-- he has to get three months of it in in one night, and michael robinavitch is nothing if not stubborn.
//end note:
you can read more about the harmful effects of generative ai here!
and deafmetal is a real company, which you can check out here!//
A deep vibration that you felt directly against your cheek before your implants fully processed it. It was your favorite sound in the world.
A red flash. The heartbreaking screech of brakes against the asphalt. Thunderous horns. The explosion of metal against metal and a dull impact that seemed to change the meaning of the universe.
Then, nothingness.
The ER goes completely haywire, even more so than usual, when a patient turns out to be the deaf wife of the infamous Park “The Shark”
I’d like to give special thanks to @brown-eyes-cello-and-books for their advice and guidance. I hope I did it right.
Hey guys and welcome to another piece for the spooky season, this time a collab with @pa1nrema1ns featuring a beautiful but deadly version of a certain Shadow Monarch! If you’re interested in seeing the artwork that inspired me, I’ll leave the link to it here. Credit goes to the original artist :)
So without further ado sit back, relax, and let us find out what is dwelling beneath the dark, briny waters~.
divider @cafekitsune
Siren! Sung Jinwoo despised humans. To this deadly apex predator, they are disgusting creatures full of greed and violence. He might lure them to a watery grave with his voice or the endless shadows under his command, but he did it to survive. To eat. It helped that his appearance was considered to be highly attractive by human standards: a handsome, but intimidating face with a muscular chest and sleek black hair.
What the bewitched humans never considered as he cradled them lovingly in his arms is that there is a monochromatic tail swishing beneath the dark waves before he pulled them under. His inky ear fins were concealed by illusionary magic of course. He couldn’t take a chance of the smallest possibility that there might be a human who is immune to a siren’s song.
When he finished collecting the carcasses in a sack and any pretty trinkets that might interest the traders at the market enough to sell their wares to him, Jinwoo would return home to his little sister and mother. They lived in an underwater cave just several miles from the coast of Jindou Island. It was a quiet human settlement when the winds grew colder, and the villagers knew better than to cross his path thanks to the reputation and training as Ashborn’s terrifying apprentice. When spring or summer arrived, however, humans from the Mainland came to the island in droves.
More meat sacks meant more food and a little more variety in flavor. He also wouldn’t have to go head-to-head against the other sirens either, especially the ones who think they can become the alpha of these waters by defeating him in a contest on who can lure in the most humans or defeating him in combat. Hah. How annoying.
Now imagine when he catches the delectable scent of an omega after spending another afternoon collecting seaweed to go with the evening’s meal. Humans, like sirens, possessed secondary genders and their own hierarchy. Securing a steady job or finding a partner largely depended on who was an alpha, beta, or omega.
But what made the latter the superior species is that once an omega accepts an alpha’s courting gift or allows an alpha to enter their nest during mating season, the alpha will not seek the company of another omega regardless of how sweet and lovely their scent is. Sirens were hunters, committed to the wellbeing of their mates and pups. Humans were fickle and prone to cheating, even if they were bound to someone else.
His amethyst irises dilated upon identifying the aromatic fragrance of bergamot and vanilla, followed by the activation of his sensory glands. There was no doubt about it; he had found an unmarked omega, and he needed to track the owner, before another siren to approach his intended mate first.
He swam close to the coast, near the shoreline. He never got this close to the surface before, because he could not take the risk of his soul being trapped by the humans when they carried those cursed black boxes in their hands. Ashborn called them phones. A bizarre word for a deadly weapon.
The scent led him to a ship that was ten times bigger than the ones he had seen in the past. Was this a yacht, the legendary vessel that can carry thousands of humans and let them off to explore? No. If that were true, then it would have anchored off much farther from the island and far from the sandbars. The name of this vessel is Murder on The Cerulean Sea. Filming in Process - Quiet on Set! Yachts are supposed to have shorter names. So what is this? Is the omega trapped somewhere beneath the deck? Unacceptable.
Jinwoo was about to summon Igris to conduct a discreet search of the ship when the siren suddenly discovered that you were the source of the scent he had been seeking. But you were not a siren who had been kidnapped by the humans. You were a human. And you were part of the ship’s crew.
So why is it he could not find it in his hammering heart to spit in disapproval and vanish back into the ocean to sort out his confused emotions? Why did he want to know what kind of human you were? What are those strange gestures you are making with your hands in front of the blonde woman and brown-haired man, yet your mouth remains closed? Is it a unique form of communication? A spell? Perhaps his mentor would know the answer. Ashborn knows many things about these creatures.
With a flick of his tail, Jinwoo disappeared beneath the waves and swam past the coral reefs. The seaweed beds and the rocks that held precious pearls in its crevices flickered from the corner of his eyes as he traveled further. Down, down, down, into the darkness below. A graveyard of titans from eons ago, broken remnants of civilizations. Stone, marble, and glass glowing in iridescent light. This was the place that no one except for him would dare go: the abyss.
Try as he might to distract his muddled thoughts by analyzing every single detail in the familiar sights leading to his master’s domain, Jinwoo could not stop thinking about you.
How is it possible that he, a proud warrior and an alpha, could be easily swayed by the wiles of a human omega? It was as if the roles had been reversed; he would be the victim falling prey to your irresistible charm, and you would be smiling viciously, hungry for his flesh. Is this what it felt like to be ensnared in a trap with no means of escape?
No. No, he cannot succumb to temptation. A siren and a human are not meant to be mates. Jinwoo could only hope that Ashborn will give him the answers that he seeks before your maddening fragrance takes hold of over his mind and lure him back to the surface again.
simon having a blast when he introduces deaf!reader to the rest of 141 cos not only do they get on great with price & gaz, they cannot for the life of them read soap's lips bc of his accent and soap's pouting the whole time abt it
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.”
