Im slowly starting to forget how his face looked like
Felt kinda angsty for the past week so i wrote this.
Im not good at angst, i should train it more 😓✌️
ALSO @xxangelcreamcupcakexx IM SO SORRY IT TOOK TOO LONG HAHAHA
House never wanted a kid.
That was the first thing he told himself when the nurse placed a tiny, screaming human being into his arms sixteen years ago.
He remembered thinking: This is a mistake.
Not the kid. Not exactly.
The situation.
The timing.
The woman whose name he barely remembered after that night. The responsibility. The tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb like he was something worth holding onto.
House was not built for children.
He was built for sarcasm, bad decisions, and proving everyone wrong. He was built for diagnosing impossible cases and making people hate him before they admitted he was right.
He was not built for bedtime stories.
He was not built for teaching someone how to ride a bike.
He was not built for the terrifying realization that someone could look at him — him — and see something other than a broken man.
But his son did.
And somehow, impossibly, the kid stayed.
At first, House called him “the parasite.”
Then “the tiny parasite.”
Then “annoying little human.”
Then, eventually, just his name.
Sixteen years later, he was still wondering how that tiny human had managed to become the only person in his life he never wanted to lose.
He liked him.
Not because he had to.
Not because he was his father.
Because he was funny.
Because he was smart.
Because he was the only person on Earth who could insult Gregory House and somehow make it sound like a compliment
Everyone at Princeton-Plainsboro knew House had a son.
Almost nobody knew what that meant.
Wilson knew.
Wilson had watched House change slowly over the years.
Not dramatically.
House didn’t suddenly become warm or sentimental.
He didn’t start baking cookies or showing up to school plays with a camera.
He was still House.
But there were differences.
Small ones.
House kept a photo of his son in his office drawer.
Not on the desk.
That would have been too obvious.
But in the drawer.
The one nobody touched.
His son was celebrating his 14th birthday in the picture.
Messy hair.
That hoodie he had almost everywhere
And that stupid happy grin on his face.
The first thing House did when he found out his son was dying was look for a second opinion.
The second thing he did was find a third.
The third thing he did was insult all of them.
“Your differential is lazy,” House said, throwing a chart onto the conference table.
The team looked up.
Chase sighed. “It’s a terminal diagnosis.”
“Terminal is a fancy word doctors use when they’ve run out of ideas.”
Foreman crossed his arms. “Sometimes terminal means terminal.”
House stared at him.
The room went quiet.
..
His son knew.
Of course he knew.
“You’re trying to find another answer.”
House sat beside his hospital bed.
“Yes.”
“There isn’t one.”
“Yes, there is.”
His son smiled sadly.
“Dad.”
House froze. Stared for a moment and swallowed hard
“I’m scared,” House admitted. His voice almost a whisper.
The words came out before he could stop them.
His son looked surprised.
Because House admitting fear was like the sun rising in the west.
“I know.”
“I’m supposed to fix this.”
“You fixed a lot.”
“Not this.”
His son reached for his hand.
“You gave me sixteen years.”
House swallowed.
“I was supposed to give you more.”
“I know.”
And somehow, that hurt worse.
Because his son wasn’t pretending.
He knew.
They both knew.
Near the end, his son asked for something simple.
“Can we watch a movie?”
House looked suspicious.
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“No medical requests?”
“No.”
“No last-minute life advice?”
His son smirked weakly.
“You’re terrible at that.”
“True.”
They watched a terrible movie.
The kind House would normally mock.
Normally, he would point out every little mistake.
Normally, he would complain.
Instead, he watched.
Because his son laughed.
And House wanted to remember that sound.
People always said you never forget someone you love.
People lied.
You forget.
Slowly.
Little things.
The exact sound of their laugh.
The way they moved when they walked.
The expressions they made when they were annoyed.
The way their voice sounded when they said your name.
And House was terrified.
Because his son deserved better than becoming a fading memory.
He deserved to exist.
Forever.
Not as a photograph.
Not as a story.
Not as a name written on paper.
As a person.
His kid.
Months later, Cuddy found him in his office.
Not working.
Just sitting.
That was worse.
“House.”
No response.
She stepped closer.
“What are you doing?”
He looked down at the photograph on his desk.
His son.
14 years old.
Grinning.
Alive.
“I’m trying to remember his voice.”
Cuddy’s expression softened.
“You know his voice.”
House shook his head.
“No.”
A pause.
“I know that I knew it.”
Cuddy now stood across from him.
House stared at the picture.
“I remember facts.”
He tapped the photograph.
“He hated tomatoes. He cheated at board games. He liked to tease peopel.”
A tiny smile.
“He was terrible at lying.”
Then it vanished.
“But I’m starting to forget.”
Cuddy said nothing.
Because there was nothing to say.
“I’m slowly starting to forget how his face looked like.”
And for once…
House didn’t need someone to tell him everything would be okay.
Because he knew.
It wouldn’t.
The only thing he could do was remember for as long as he could.
And when memory failed…
He would still know one thing.
For sixteen years, Gregory House — the man who hated everyone and everything — had someone he loved.
And that was the one miracle medicine could never explain.
