hii! i just started watching house last week- and i noticed there isn't many authors that write for house anymore and i was wondering if you could do sick greg house (he's got fever and stuffy nose and whatever's going on inside his head😭😭) so he gets clingy to his wife (reader) and won't let her go to work and demands cuddles (you don't have to write this but THANK YOU!!)
>>>Sick and Clingy<<<
Summery: Gregory House does not get sick. His immune system is superior. His mind is superior. His everything is superior.Except today he has a fever, a sinus headache, and the emotional regulation of a toddler.
Pairing: Gregory House x f!reader
Genre: domestic fluff • hurt/comfort • sick!house • grumpy husband • caretaking • married life • house being dramatic • soft house moments
Gregory was never silent in the morning. He complained about the light. The coffee. The news. The concept of mornings. Existence.
But today?
Nothing.
You step out of the bathroom, towel-drying your hair, and find him still in bed. On his back. Staring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him.
That’s terrifying.
“Greg?”
A pause.
Then, hoarse and gravel-thick:
“Cancel work.”
You blink. “You’re not my boss.”
“I am your husband,” he says weakly. “Higher authority.”
You walk closer.
His hair is mussed, eyes glassy, cheeks faintly flushed. He looks… soft. Disarmed. Human.
You press your hand to his forehead.
Hot.
“Oh my God,” you breathe. “You’re burning up.”
“I’m dying.”
“You have a cold.”
“It’s meningitis.”
“It’s not meningitis.”
“It could be.”
You lean down and kiss his forehead anyway. He closes his eyes immediately, like you’ve just given him morphine.
“…Don’t go,” he mutters.
You pull back slightly. “I have clinic.”
“Call in sick.”
“I’m not sick.”
“You’re about to be,” he threatens, attempting to pull you down with one arm.
He succeeds.
You land against his chest, and immediately he tightens both arms around you like you’re the last life raft on the Titanic.
“Greg,” you laugh softly. “I have patients.”
“They’ll live.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. I’m the genius diagnostician. They’re all dramatic.”
He buries his face in your neck.
And freezes.
“…You’re cold.”
“Yes. That’s how normal body temperature works.”
He groans and presses closer, sliding one leg over yours, trapping you completely.
“You’re staying.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes.”
“Gregory.”
“Wife.”
The way he says it is petulant and affectionate at the same time.
You try to sit up.
He makes an offended noise and clutches tighter.
“Unacceptable.”
“You’re acting like a koala.”
“I’m a very sick koala.”
“You’re a manipulative koala.”
“Same thing.”
He shifts, dragging the blanket up around both of you, cocooning you together. His nose is stuffy, breathing uneven, warm breath against your collarbone.
And then—
He sniffles.
You freeze.
Did Gregory House just—
He sniffs again. Irritated.
“This is humiliating,” he mutters.
“You’re adorable.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m a terrifying medical icon.”
“You’re a congested medical icon.”
He groans and presses his face against your chest to hide.
You feel it then—how warm he is. How tired. His usual sharpness dulled by fever.
“…My head hurts,” he mumbles quietly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
That’s when your heart caves in.
You thread your fingers into his hair and gently scratch his scalp.
He melts.
Actually melts.
A soft, involuntary exhale leaves him.
“Traitor,” he whispers.
“What?”
“My body. It likes that.”
“Your body likes affection from its wife. Groundbreaking.”
He shifts again, hand sliding under your shirt just to press his palm against your bare waist. Not sexual. Just anchoring.
“Don’t go,” he repeats, softer now. Not commanding.
Asking.
You hesitate.
He opens one eye and looks up at you.
And God, he looks wrecked. Fever-bright eyes. Pink nose. Vulnerable in a way he almost never lets himself be.
“…You’re really not going to let me leave, are you?”
“No.”
“You have a hospital full of competent doctors.”
“They’re idiots.”
“You trained them.”
“Which says more about them.”
You sigh dramatically.
He tightens his grip in response.
“You love me,” he says, muffled against you.
“That’s not a reason.”
“It is.”
“It’s emotional blackmail.”
“It’s effective.”
You try one more time to shift upward.
He immediately whines.
Actually whines.
“…Cold,” he mutters when the air hits him.
“Oh my God.”
“Cruel woman. Abandoning her dying husband.”
“You are not dying.”
He sniffles again.
“…Prove it.”
“How?”
“Stay.”
You look at the clock.
Then at him.
Then at the way his thumb is absentmindedly tracing slow circles against your side like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
“…Fine.”
He stills.
“…Fine?”
“I’ll text in. Half day.”
He goes quiet.
Then slowly tightens his arms around you and presses a fever-warm kiss to your shoulder.
“Marry me again,” he murmurs.
You laugh. “I already did.”
“Do it again.”
“You’re delirious.”
“Probably.”
You feel him relax fully for the first time since you woke up. His breathing steadies. His grip softens but never lets go.
After a few minutes, he mutters, half-asleep:
“…If you get sick too, we can both stay home.”
“Gregory.”
“Worth it.”
You pinch his side gently.
He makes a sleepy protest noise and pulls you even closer.
And as he drifts off, still tangled around you like you might disappear if he loosens his hold, he whispers one last thing—
Gregory House x Psychiatrist! Reader
Summary: You went in expecting a battle of wits, but when you caught him off-guard by seeing the man behind the cane—the one who's actually scared—you realized he might let you stay.
"You have fifteen minutes," House announces, barging into your office without knocking. He throws himself onto the leather couch, cane clattering against the coffee table. "Actually, make it ten. I have a patient dying of something interesting."
You don't look up from your notes. "You're not scheduled for another hour."
"And yet here I am. Proactive. Cooperative." He pops a Vicodin, dry-swallowing with a grimace. "Your file says you graduated top of your class. Johns Hopkins. Impressive." He says it like an insult.
"You've read my file."
"I read everyone's file." He fixes you with that predatory stare, blue eyes sharp under the stubble. "You took this gig to 'fix' me. Classic narcissism, Doctor. Thinking you're special enough to solve the unsolvable."
You finally meet his gaze, unflinching. "I took this gig because Cuddy pays triple for difficult cases. And you're not unsolvable, House. You're just a coward who hides behind diagnostic puzzles because people are scarier than diseases."
The room goes quiet. His jaw tightens.
"You're limping worse today," you observe, softening your voice. "The leg?"
He looks away first, something vulnerable flickering beneath the armor. "You're not supposed to notice things like that."
"I'm a psychiatrist. Noticing is the job."
He stares at the ceiling, throat working. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then: "Nine minutes left."
"Then we'd better make them count," you reply, and for the first time, he doesn't smirk. He almost smiles.
Summary: You thought the hardest part of medicine would be getting into medical school. Turns out it's surviving Gregory House's mood swings, and a new found crush.
Watching the two of them was almost like watching a tennis match. Wilson would present another piece of evidence, and House would swat it away with a sarcastic remark, refusing to acknowledge the growing list of reasons he should take the case.
For everyone who worked with him, this was simply another day.
Was it frustrating? Absolutely.
Was it entertaining? More often than you’d care to admit.
“None of which is even close to dispositive,” House said as he reached for the pain medication you’d handed him. All it does is raise one question. Your cousin goes to an HMO?”
After he took one, you plucked the bottle from his hand and slipped it neatly into the pocket of your sweater.
“Come on,” Wilson urged. “Why leave all the fun for the coroner?”
“What’s the point of putting together a team if you’re not gonna use them?”
You stepped in beside Wilson, placing yourself directly in House's path. Wilson gave your shoulder a subtle nudge, silently asking you to help.
“You’ve got three overqualified doctors working for you. They’re getting bored, House. There are only so many interesting cases I can assign to them before they start wondering where you are.”
You gently pat his shoulder before placing the file into his hands.
“Think about it, please? There might be something everyone else is missing.”
Before House could respond, the phone clipped to your waistband buzzed.
“You glanced down at the caller ID and answered without missing a beat.
“This is y/n Emery speaking. Dr.House is unavailable at the moment, but I’d be happy to relay a message for you.”
Already turning on your heel, your voice gradually faded into the bustle of the hospital corridor.
“Yes…I understand. I’ll make sure he gets that as soon as he’s free…Thank you.”
The rhythmic click of your heels echoed down the hallway until you disappeared around the corner, your conversation swallowed by the noise of monitors, rolling gurneys, and passing staff.
Willson watched you go before turning back to House.
“And you’ve got one hell of an assistant who puts up with you…and supports your team through everything.
you keep embarrassing house by kissing him on the cheek/jawline in public :3 (I really wanna kiss his cheek because of the stubble)
>>> Tactical <<<
Summery: An affectionate game of public teasing takes a breathless turn behind closed doors.
Pairing: Gregory House x f!reader
Genre: Angst-free, Slow burn, Dom/sub undertones, Domestic, Mutual pining, not smut but a bit sexual.
Author’s note: Thank you ya’ll so much for 300 followers! Your love and support means a lot to me. I had to make this request a special one and waited for the right time to post it.
The thing about being the only person at Princeton-Plainsboro who isn’t afraid of Gregory House is that it gives you a lot of leverage. It also gives you a target.
House likes his boundaries clearly defined by a wall of sarcasm, misanthropy, and a general aura of "do not touch." Naturally, your favorite hobby has become demolishing that wall in the most public way possible.
Incident 1: The Elevator Ambush
It’s a rainy Tuesday, and the hospital elevators are packed. You, House, Cuddy, and three terrified medical interns are crammed into the small metal box. House is in a particularly foul mood, loudly analyzing the poor posture and impending cardiac failures of the interns to pass the time.
The interns are staring at the floor, praying for death or their floor destination, whichever comes first.
"And you," House says, turning his sharp blue eyes onto the intern closest to him. "Your left pupil is slightly more dilated than your right. Either you’re having a stroke, or you’re completely terrified of a man with a cane. If it's the latter, good. If it's the former—"
You don’t let him finish. Stepping right into his personal space, you hook your hand around the back of his neck, pull his head down a fraction, and plant a firm, audible kiss right on his jawline.
The elevator goes dead silent. The interns look like they’ve just witnessed someone pet a shark.
House freezes mid-sentence, his jaw going slack. He looks down at you, his eyes wide with a rare flash of genuine shock.
"You have a little something right there," you say cheerfully, patting his cheek. "It was a grumpy expression. Glad I got it."
The elevator dings, and Cuddy steps out, not even trying to hide her grin. "Have a good shift, House. Try not to blush too hard."
House glares at the closing doors, his face flushing a distinct shade of pink. "I don't blush," he mutters to the wall, aggressively rubbing his jaw with his sleeve. "I have a circulatory condition."
Incident 2: The Lecture Hall Interrupt
House is giving a guest lecture to a room full of sixty pathology students. He hates teaching, which means he’s being twice as brutal as usual, ripping a student's differential diagnosis to shreds.
"If that is your best guess, please change your major to art history," House drawls into the microphone, leaning heavily on the podium. "The patient would be dead before you even finished spelling 'autoimmune'."
You walk down the steps of the lecture hall, completely ignoring the rows of students watching you. You walk right onto the stage, straight up to the podium.
House stops talking, squinting at you. "If you're here to deliver clinic hours, I died twenty minutes ago."
Instead of answering, you lean over the podium, cup his chin with your hand, and press a lingering, affectionate kiss right onto his cheek. The microphone picks up the soft smack of the kiss and broadcasts it perfectly to all sixty students.
A collective gasp echoes through the lecture hall. A few students actually snicker.
House yanks his head back, his eyes darting to the auditorium seats and then back to you. For a man who always has a comeback, he is entirely speechless.
"Just bringing you your coffee," you say, setting the paper cup on the podium. "Don't forget to smile, professor."
As you walk back up the stairs, you hear House clear his throat aggressively into the microphone. "Right. As I was saying before I was biologically assaulted... anyone else who laughs fails the semester."
Incident 3: Wilson’s Office
You find House hiding out in Wilson’s office, lying flat on his back on Wilson's couch, complaining about a case while Wilson patiently types away at his desk.
"She's boring, Wilson. Her symptoms are boring. Her family is boring. I'm going to cure her just so they all leave," House groans, staring at the ceiling.
You walk into the office, stroll right over to the couch, and lean over him. House opens one eye, instantly suspicious. "No. Absolutely not. Whatever look is on your face right now, abort it."
You ignore him, leaning down and planting a soft, sweet kiss right on the center of his cheek, letting your hair brush against his face.
From across the room, Wilson bursts out laughing.
House groans loudly, covering his face with both hands. "Great. Excellent. Now he's going to analyze this for the next three weeks. I hope you're happy."
"I am," you smile, sitting on the edge of the couch by his legs.
House lowers his hands, glaring up at you with a pout that looks entirely ridiculous on a fifty-year-old man. He looks toward Wilson, who is practically beaming.
"She's a menace, Wilson. A public health hazard," House grumbles. But as he turns his head back toward the ceiling, you notice he doesn't wipe his cheek this time. In fact, his hand wanders up to his cane, tapping a lazy, content rhythm against the floor.
………
The apartment was quiet for once, the low murmur of the TV the only sound cutting through the dim living room. House was lying flat on his back on the couch, his cane hooked over the armrest, a trashy reality TV show playing on the screen. He looked completely at peace—or as at peace as a man like House could ever look.
That peace lasted right until you walked into the room.
You had gone into his closet and fished out one of his crisp, white linen button-down shirts. Because of the size difference, the hem fell well past your thighs, completely eliminating the need for pants. It was oversized, comfortable, and smelled faintly of his starch and cologne.
House’s eyes drifted away from the television, tracking you as you walked over. His gaze darkened, a slow, appreciative smirk tugging at his lips, though he tried to mask it behind a lazy roll of his eyes. "Great. First you steal my dignity in public, now you’re stealing my wardrobe. What’s next, the cane?"
Instead of answering, you climbed right onto the couch, straddling his waist and laying your upper body flat against his chest. You aligned yourself perfectly over him, resting your chin on his shoulder.
Before he could complain about you blocking his view of the TV, you leaned up and planted another soft, lingering kiss right on his jawline.
House let out a long, dramatic sigh, but his hands automatically found your waist, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles through the thin fabric of his shirt. He didn't push you away. Instead, he finally looked down at you, his blue eyes searching yours with genuine, quiet curiosity.
"Alright, I'll bite," House muttered, his voice dropping an octave, rough and gravelly in the quiet apartment. "Why do you keep doing that? Every time there's an audience, you turn my face into a target. What's the strategy here? What's the play?"
You smiled, resting your cheek right against the rough skin of his jaw. "No strategy. I just love your stubble."
House scoffed, a soft chuckle vibrating against your chest. "My stubble. Right. It’s scratchy, it’s unkempt, and Cuddy complains about it weekly."
"Well, Cuddy doesn't get to appreciate it," you teased, tracing a finger down the line of his collarbone. "I love it because it’s scratchy. I love the way it feels against my skin. And honestly? I love doing it in public because it completely ruins your miserable, untouchable reputation. But mostly, I just like reminding you—and everyone else—that you're mine. Even when you're being an unbearable genius."
House stared at you for a long beat. The cynical exterior he wore like armor completely melted away, replaced by a heat that made your breath hitch.
"Is that so?" he whispered.
Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your waist. With a sudden, surprising burst of strength, House shifted his weight, rolling you over onto your back so he was looming over you on the couch. His cane clattered to the floor, completely forgotten.
He pinned your hands above your head, his chest pressing firmly against yours. A wicked, dangerous grin spread across his face.
"If you wanted my stubble, all you had to do was ask," House murmured, his voice thick and low. "I'll give you all the stubble kisses you want."
He released your hands, his fingers moving down to the buttons of the white shirt you’d stolen. He undone the first three, parting the fabric down to your sternum, exposing the warm skin underneath.
House leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He didn't just kiss you; he intentionally dragged his rough, shadowed jawline slowly across your sensitive skin, making you gasp and shiver beneath him. The contrast of his scratchy stubble against your neck was intoxicating.
He pressed a barrage of rough, warm kisses along your collarbone, up the column of your neck, and right beneath your ear, rubbing his cheek against yours until you were laughing and breathless, your fingers knotting tightly into his hair to pull him closer.
"Still like the stubble?" he muttered against your skin, his lips brushing your jaw before he finally brought his mouth up to capture yours.
"See? This is why I avoid shaving," House murmured smugly, his lips replacing the stubble, pressing soft, wet kisses over the skin he’d just sensitized. "It’s tactical. A necessary tool in my arsenal."
"You're ridiculous," you breathed, threading your fingers through his greying hair and tugging gently. "You just hate waking up early enough to do it."
"Two things can be true," he replied, lifting his head to look down at you. His eyes were dark, dilated, the usual sharp cynicism entirely absent. He looked at you with a kind of raw, undisguised hunger that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
He didn't give you a chance to speak again. He captured your lips in another searing kiss, his hands sliding down to cup your hips, pulling you flush against him. The friction of his jeans against your bare thighs was a stark reminder of exactly how little you were wearing.
House tore his mouth away, resting his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily. He looked down at the white shirt, now hopelessly rumpled and thoroughly unbuttoned, and then back up to your face.
"Next time you decide to ambush me in front of Wilson or Cuddy," House whispered, his thumb tracing your bottom lip, "I’m going to remember this exact moment. And I’m going to drag you into a supply closet and show them exactly why you’re doing it."
You smiled, pulling his head back down to yours. "Is that a promise, Dr. House?"
"It's a medical guarantee," he murmured, before sealing his lips over yours once again.
This is a super random trope but hear me out, House x Model. When she showed up at Princeton-Plainsboro everyone was shocked that she was there for House and not many people understand their surprisingly healthy relationship.
>>> Not The One They Expected <<<
Summery: You show up at Princeton-Plainsboro, everyone gets shocked to see that she was there for House and not many people understand their surprisingly healthy relationship.
Pairing: Dr.house x model!f!reader
Genre: Romance | Character Study | Soft House | Established Relationship | Unexpected Pairing
The Diagnostics floor at Princeton-Plainsboro was used to strange.
People collapsed in hallways. Patients hallucinated. Doctors yelled. House limped, insulted, and violated at least three hospital policies before noon on a good day.
But this?
This was different.
The elevator dinged softly, the doors sliding open like nothing monumental was about to happen—and then the air shifted.
She stepped out.
Conversation didn’t just stop. It broke.
A nurse forgot what she was saying mid-sentence. A resident walking backward with a chart bumped straight into a wall. Phones lowered. Eyes widened. Recognition rippled through the floor like a silent electric current.
She was unmistakable.
Tall, poised without trying. Wearing dark sunglasses that didn’t hide her, just framed her. Dressed simply—jeans, a clean coat, boots that had probably walked Paris and Milan—but her presence was impossible to dress down. This was the woman whose face lived on billboards, whose walk closed runways, whose smile sold impossible things.
Foreman stared.
“…No way.”
Chase leaned closer to Cameron. “That’s not actually her, right?”
Cameron swallowed. “Why would she be here?”
The woman scanned the floor once, calm and unhurried. She didn’t look at the people staring. Didn’t acknowledge the whispers already forming.
Her gaze locked onto one person only.
Gregory House.
House was limping out of his office, coffee in one hand, painkillers in the other—illegal, but efficient. He stopped mid-step the second he saw her.
For once, he didn’t hide his reaction.
He stared.
“Oh,” he said flatly. “Fantastic. Either I’m hallucinating again or I’ve finally cracked and manifested a supermodel.”
She smiled.
Not the practiced, public smile people paid for.
A real one.
“Hi,” she said.
House squinted. “You’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow.”
“You said that last time too.”
“I also said I’d stop lying one day.”
She slid her sunglasses up into her hair and walked toward him, completely unconcerned by the way an entire hospital floor had stopped functioning.
Someone whispered, “Is she here for a case?”
Another voice: “Maybe she’s playing a patient?”
House didn’t move when she reached him.
She leaned in and kissed his cheek—quick, familiar, affectionate in a way that didn’t ask permission.
“I brought lunch,” she said softly. “Actual food. With nutrients.”
House exhaled like he’d been holding it in.
“…You love me,” he muttered.
“I tolerate you.”
“Marriage material.”
⸻
By the time they disappeared into House’s office, theories were flying.
She’s consulting.
It’s a publicity stunt.
This has to be a bet.
There is no universe where that woman is actually with House.
Inside the office, none of that existed.
She set the food down on his desk, automatically moving his clutter aside without being asked—muscle memory, not entitlement. House watched her the way people watched sunsets they pretended not to care about.
“You didn’t sleep,” she said casually, unwrapping containers.
House raised an eyebrow. “You tracked my REM cycles from New York?”
“No,” she replied. “Your voice sounds like gravel soaked in regret.”
He smirked. “Poetic.”
She didn’t smile back this time.
“You’re pushing yourself.”
He waved it off. “That’s my thing.”
She met his eyes. “So is pretending you don’t hurt.”
House looked away first.
She handed him a fork. “Eat.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Then I’ll sit here and stare at you until you do.”
“You wouldn’t.”
She sat down.
House ate.
⸻
Wilson caught sight of her later in the hall, leaning against the wall while House argued with Foreman.
She wasn’t scrolling her phone. Wasn’t posing. Wasn’t bored.
She was watching him—really watching. Like she was reading something no one else ever got to see.
Wilson hesitated, then approached.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” he said carefully, “but… why House?”
She looked at him, thoughtful, not offended.
“Because he doesn’t lie to me,” she said. “Not about the important things.”
Wilson blinked. “He lies about everything.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “But never about who he is.”
She glanced back at House, who was mid-sarcastic tirade.
“When I’m with him, I don’t have to be perfect. I don’t have to perform. He doesn’t see a fantasy—he sees a person.”
Wilson smiled, surprised.
“And when he’s hurting,” she added softly, “he lets me see it.”
⸻
By the end of the day, the shock had dulled into something else.
Respect.
They saw the way she grounded him.
The way he listened when she spoke.
The way sarcasm softened into honesty when it was just the two of them.
She didn’t try to fix him.
He didn’t try to control her.
They met in the middle—sharp edges and steady hands.
As she stood to leave, House leaned against his doorway.
Fanfic where greg houses wife is autistic loves anything pink,floral,shabby chic always wears low rise jeans Hollister jumpers,babydoll tops, denim skirts, long uggs, Isabel marants that greg got her, always wears warm tone makeup, dewy, light eyeshadow, long lashes, light pink blush, nude lip combo, always has her air in a messy bun or styled, always talking about her hyperfixations to Greg that includes cats, cooking and candles and when she gets burned out or over simulated greg gets her clothes, food or new perfume, Greg let her paint little roses to his cane once.
>>>Roses On His Cane<<<
Summery: House never expected to fall in love with someone so soft. His wife lives in pink sweaters, floral perfume, candle obsessions, and endless hyperfixations — and somehow turns his cold apartment into a home.
Pairing: Gregory House x f!reader
Genre: Autism Representation / Married Life / Slow Domestic Romance / soft!house
Everyone at the hospital assumed Greg House had married someone equally terrifying.
A lawyer, maybe.
A woman who argued for sport and drank whiskey neat and insulted people for fun.
Not—
her.
Not the girl who walked into the hospital lobby in a cream babydoll top layered under a tiny pink cardigan, denim mini skirt, and tall chestnut Uggs while carrying a tote bag covered in cats.
Not the woman who smelled faintly of vanilla and roses.
Not the woman who once spent twenty uninterrupted minutes explaining to House why Yankee Candle’s “Pink Sands” was emotionally different from Bath & Body Works’ “Pink Pineapple Sunrise.”
And definitely not the woman currently sitting in House’s office chair with her legs tucked underneath her while decorating patient files with tiny flower doodles.
Foreman stared.
Chase blinked twice.
Cameron looked delighted.
House limped past them, coffee in one hand.
“Why are you all standing around like Victorian children witnessing electricity for the first time?”
Foreman pointed carefully into the office. “Your wife is reorganizing your desk by color.”
“She does that when stressed.”
“She’s using pink sticky notes.”
House sipped his coffee. “And?”
“She labeled your vicodin bottle.”
“Good. Last week I accidentally swallowed a breath mint instead.”
Inside the office, she looked up immediately when she heard his cane tap against the floor.
Her whole face brightened.
“You’re back!”
“Unfortunately.”
“You forgot your lunch.”
“I was hoping to.”
She ignored that, already standing to hand him the pink floral lunch bag she’d packed that morning. A tiny cat keychain swung from the zipper.
Chase looked physically pained trying not to laugh.
House noticed instantly.
“You have something to say, pretty boy?”
“Nope.”
“She made heart-shaped strawberries,” Cameron said, smiling.
House looked offended. “You inspected my lunch?”
“She showed us pictures.”
“She’s proud of the strawberries,” Foreman deadpanned.
His wife beamed. “They came out really cute.”
House stared at her for a second.
Then opened the lunch bag.
Inside was a neatly packed sandwich, strawberries cut into little hearts, and a note written in pink gel pen.
Don’t skip lunch or I’ll fight you.
There was also a badly drawn cat.
House folded the note carefully and shoved it into his pocket before anyone could comment.
Unfortunately, Wilson walked in at the exact wrong moment.
“Oh my God,” James Wilson said. “You kept the note.”
House looked ready to commit murder.
“She draws tiny cats on all of them,” Wilson continued gleefully.
“She also alphabetized my tea collection,” she added proudly.
“You own tea?” Chase asked House.
“No,” House replied flatly. “Apparently we own tea.”
—
Living with House was strange.
Living with his wife was stranger.
Their apartment looked like two completely incompatible people had been forced together by a sitcom producer.
One half:
Records. Medical books. Dark furniture. Mismatched mugs. Chaos.
The other:
Pink floral blankets.Vintage-style vanity trays. Candles arranged by scent category. Tiny porcelain cats. Skincare products covering every bathroom surface.
And somehow—
it worked.
Mostly because House let her have whatever made her happy.
Including the disastrous rose wallpaper incident.
“It looks like a grandmother haunted by Etsy died in here,” he informed her while staring at the bedroom wall.
She gasped. “You said you liked it!”
“I lied.”
“You helped me put it up!”
“You looked emotionally fragile.”
She narrowed her eyes.
House smirked slightly and sat down on the bed while she continued adjusting fairy lights above the headboard.
Truthfully?
He liked watching her exist.
Liked watching her ramble while doing makeup at the vanity every morning, surrounded by expensive products and pink brushes.
Liked hearing her talk endlessly about cooking videos and candle reviews and cat breeds.
Liked the way she’d crawl into his lap wearing oversized Hollister sweaters and smell like vanilla perfume after bad sensory days.
She made his apartment softer.
Quieter.
Warmer.
Even if she did own an unreasonable amount of decorative pillows.
One winter evening, House came home to find every light in the apartment off except the kitchen.
His wife sat curled on the counter wearing one of his old Princeton-Plainsboro hoodies and fuzzy socks, mascara slightly smudged.
Three untouched candles sat beside her.
That was the first sign something was wrong.
She always lit the candles.
House leaned his cane against the doorway. “Who died?”
She shrugged weakly.
Bad sign number two.
House watched her carefully.
No music playing.
No talking.
No hyperfixation rambling.
Just silence.
“How bad?” he asked finally.
She rubbed at her sleeves. “Everything feels too loud.”
House’s expression shifted instantly.
Burnout.
Again.
Without another word, he walked over and stood between her knees.
“Hey,” he said quieter.
She avoided eye contact. “My brain feels itchy.”
Normal people probably wouldn’t have understood that sentence.
House did.
He gently pulled her hands away from her sleeves before they could start fidgeting hard enough to hurt.
“Did you eat?”
A tiny shrug.
Translation: no.
House sighed dramatically like this was deeply annoying for him personally before reaching into the cabinet.
Ten minutes later, she sat bundled in blankets on the couch while he handed her grilled cheese cut into little squares because she ate easier that way when overwhelmed.
“You’re staring at me,” she mumbled.
“You’ve blinked six times in ten minutes. I’m monitoring you.”
“That’s creepy.”
“I’m a doctor. We thrive on creepy.”
She smiled a little at that.
Better.
House sat beside her afterward while she leaned heavily against his shoulder.
The apartment smelled faintly of vanilla frosting from the candle he’d lit for her.
Quiet.
Safe.
After a while she whispered, “Can I tell you something?”
“Probably not legally.”
“I love you more when I’m burnt out.”
House frowned slightly. “That’s concerning.”
“No, because…” She played with the sleeve of his sweater. “Everyone else feels sharp when I’m overwhelmed. But you don’t.”
Something in his face softened.
Tiny.
Almost impossible to notice unless you knew him.
“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.
“You bought me three perfumes this month.”
“You cried in Sephora.”
“The lights were evil.”
“They were fluorescent.”
“Exactly”
House snorted quietly.
Then he reached over, grabbing her hand absentmindedly and rubbing his thumb across her knuckles while she ate.
No sarcasm.
No jokes.
Just grounding her silently the way he’d learned to do over the years.
Later that night, after she finally fell asleep against his chest, House glanced toward the black cane resting beside the couch.
Tiny pale pink roses still curled around the handle where she’d painted them months ago.
One petal was chipped.
He traced it lightly with his thumb.
Then looked down at his sleeping wife buried in blankets and floral pajamas.
And for maybe the thousandth time since marrying her, Gregory House had the deeply irritating realization that he would probably destroy anyone who made her cry.
Summery:House notices a sudden shift in your daily habits—from avoiding your mandatory morning coffee to an uncharacteristic wave of irritability—he does what he does best: solves the case.
Pairing: Greg House x f!reader
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Accidental Pregnancy, Fluff and Angst
Request by: @brittlegambitsiren
The clinic at Hospital was, as it always had been, a battleground of minor inconveniences. The air smelled of industrial lemon cleaner, rubbing alcohol, and the collective anxiety of forty people waiting to be told they had a common cold.
You sat behind the low wooden desk of the triage station, rubbing the back of your neck. A low, dull ache had settled deep into your lower back around mid-morning, and by 3:00 PM, it had blossomed into a persistent throbbing. You stared blankly at a patient chart, the words blurring together.
"If you stare at that folder any harder, you might actually set it on fire. Which would be great, because then I wouldn't have to sign it."
You didn’t even need to look up to know Dr. Gregory House was leaning against the doorframe. The distinct, rhythmic thump-clack of his cane had given him away three corridors ago.
"I’m just tired, House," you sighed, tossing the chart onto the desk and leaning your head back against the vinyl chair. "Go terrorize Cuddy. I’m not in the mood to be your verbal punching bag today."
House didn’t leave. Instead, he limped into the cubicle, his piercing blue eyes tracking your every movement with a terrifying, algorithmic precision. He leaned heavily on his cane, tilting his head as he analyzed you.
"Tired. Right. Because a standard twelve-hour shift normally turns a functioning medical professional into a sluggish, irritable zombie who has visited the staff restroom four times in the last two hours."
You blinked, a sudden flush of heat creeping up your neck. "Are you tracking my bathroom breaks now? Because that crosses about five different HR boundaries, even for you."
"I don't need to track them; I have eyes. And ears. And a nose," House said, stepping closer. He sniffed the air slightly, leaning in just enough to make you instinctively lean back. "You didn't put on your usual vanilla perfume today. Because it makes you gag. Just like the smell of Foreman’s leftover Thai food did at lunch."
"It was old fish, House! Anyone would gag at that."
"Foreman eats chicken pad thai. No fish. No seafood," House countered smoothly. His gaze drifted down, his sharp eyes lingering on your hands.
You were currently pressing the palms of both hands flat against your desk, trying to find a position that didn't make your lower back feel like it was being compressed by a hydraulic press. You also hadn't touched your morning coffee. It sat on the edge of the desk, completely cold, a thin film forming over the dark liquid.
"You haven't had caffeine today," House observed, pointing the brass handle of his cane at the mug. "You live on coffee. If you don't have a cup by 9:00 AM, you usually threaten to amputate Chase’s fingers with a bone saw. It is currently mid-afternoon."
"I'm just fighting off a stomach bug," you snapped, your irritation flaring up much faster than it normally would. To your absolute horror, your eyes pricked with sudden, inexplicable tears of sheer frustration. You choked them back, clearing your throat angrily.
House’s demeanor shifted. The mocking, playful glint in his eyes vanished, replaced by something intensely focused, almost quiet.
Six weeks ago. A rainy Tuesday night. A bottle of high-end scotch you’d brought over to his apartment to celebrate a mutual victory over a near-impossible diagnosis. One thing had led to another—a blur of desperate hands, tangled sheets, and a rare, raw vulnerability that neither of you had spoken about since. You had both reverted to your usual banter the next morning, pretending the shift in the universe hadn't happened.
House let out a short, sharp breath through his nose. He reached into his lab coat pocket, pulled out a small, metallic object, and tossed it onto the desk. It landed next to your cold coffee with a soft clink. It was a small keychain flashlight.
"Catch," he said suddenly, grabbing a roll of medical tape from the counter and tossing it directly at your chest.
Your reflexes were usually sharp, but your hands moved a second too late. The tape bounced off your scrub top and thudded to the floor. You gasped, your hand flying instinctively to rest flat over your abdomen—a protective, subconscious gesture.
House’s eyes locked onto your hand resting over your stomach. The diagnosis in his mind was complete.
"You're an idiot," House said softly.
"Excuse me?" you bristled, pulling your hand away as if burned. "Because my reflexes are slow today? I told you, I'm sick!"
"You're not sick." House took two steps forward, closing the distance between you until he was standing right over your chair. He leaned down, resting both hands on the handle of his cane, forcing you to look up at him. "Your breasts are tender—you’ve been adjusting your lab coat straps all day. Your lower back hurts, your olfactory senses are in overdrive, you’re retaining water in your ankles, and your emotional volatility is currently rivaling a teenage girl at a boyband concert."
Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. Your brain was entirely jammed by the sheer weight of what he was implying.
"House... what are you saying?" your voice cracked.
"I'm saying," House murmured, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, dropping the usual harsh edge he reserved for the rest of the world, "that the math adds up to exactly forty-two days ago. Which means you are currently carrying a tiny, miserable, misanthropic parasite."
The room felt like it was spinning. Forty-two days. Six weeks.
"No," you breathed, a wave of panic washing over you. "No, we used... it was just one night. It can't be."
"Contraception has a failure rate. Especially when it’s expired, which, knowing my nightstand drawer, it probably was," House said dryly.
You stared at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. You expected him to look terrified. You expected him to make a joke, to run away, to hand you a slip for an OB-GYN appointment and tell you to handle it. But he didn't. He just stood there, looking at you with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.
"You're sure?" you whispered.
"I'm always sure. Go to the lab. Draw a serum hCG. Prove me right so we can stop pretending you have a stomach flu."
Twenty minutes later, you were standing in the restricted staff bathroom down the hall from the diagnostics department. The small plastic cup in your hand felt heavy, and the white plastic test strip you had snagged from the clinic supply closet sat on the edge of the sink.
Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely submerge the tip of the strip into the liquid.
One minute. You closed your eyes, leaning your forehead against the cool mirror. Your mind raced through the logistics. A baby. With Gregory House. The man was a brilliant, vicodin-addicted lunatic who alienated everyone he met. And yet, six weeks ago, when he had held you in the dark of his bedroom, he had been so remarkably gentle.
Two minutes. You opened your eyes and looked down.
Two distinct, dark pink lines stared back at you.
The breath caught in your throat. It was one thing to hear House deduce it with his terrifying medical logic; it was another thing entirely to see the chemical proof staring back at you. You were pregnant.
When you walked into the Diagnostics office, the glass-walled room was empty except for House, who was sitting at the conference table, spinning his cane on its tip. He looked up the moment the glass door slid open. He didn't ask. He just looked at your face, reading the answer in the pale shock of your expression.
"Wilson owes me fifty bucks," House said, though there was no real triumph in his voice. It was a defense mechanism, and you knew it.
"You told Wilson?!" you gasped, the panic flaring up again.
"Didn't have to. I bet him fifty bucks this morning that you’d be off coffee by noon. He thought you were just having a rare moment of health consciousness." House stood up, leaning heavily on his cane as he walked around the table toward you. "Sit down before you pass out. You look like you've seen a ghost."
You sank into one of the leather chairs, burying your face in your hands. "House... what are we going to do? You're... you're you. And I'm... this wasn't supposed to happen."
House stood over you for a long moment. The silence stretched between you, heavy and thick with uncertainty. For a man who always had a snappy comeback, an insult, or a philosophical lecture prepared, he was remarkably quiet.
Slowly, he reached out. His calloused fingers brushed against your wrist, gently pulling your hands away from your face. When you looked up, his expression was completely stripped of his usual mockery. It was the same look he wore when he was looking at a patient he genuinely wanted to save—focused, intense, and fiercely grounded.
"First of all," House said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly register, "we are going to get you some actual food that doesn't make you want to vomit. Second of all, we are going to figure it out."
"You don't even like kids," you whispered, a tear finally escaping and slipping down your cheek. "You call them crotch-goblins."
"They are crotch-goblins," House agreed, his thumb brushing the tear away from your cheek with surprising tenderness. The warmth of his skin against yours was anchoring. "They're loud, they leak from various orifices, and they demand constant attention. But this one... half of its DNA comes from a woman who actually manages to tolerate me for more than ten minutes at a time. So the odds are slightly better that it won't be a total disaster."
You let out a watery, breathless laugh, reaching up to clasp your hand over his. "It's going to be an absolute trainwreck, Greg."
"An absolute, catastrophic trainwreck," House murmured, a genuine, soft smile finally tugging at the corners of his lips. He let go of your hand, shifting his weight as he pointed his cane toward the door. "Come on. I'm taking you home. If Cuddy asks, I'll tell her you have a highly contagious, fictional tropical disease. She won't risk coming near either of us."
As you stood up, your legs still a little shaky, House reached out and placed his palm firmly against the small of your aching back, guiding you out of the office. For the first time all day, the ache didn't feel quite so heavy.
-end
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