gregory house x sunshine!reader (x james wilson) alt. the other line
an : no x wilson yet!! that’s gonna come realll soon though
..MASTERLIST ..SUNSHINE!READER ..SUNSHINE, MISANTHROPE, BELIEVER
“go— go and talk to the teacher, look around, check for stuff,” house muttered, waving his hand at a dumbfounded foreman like he was dismissing a particularly dull waiter.
sat back in his office chair with his legs sprawled out and his cane resting across his lap like a royal scepter, gregory didn’t seem even remotely interested in what he’d already dubbed the babysitting case.
nothing new. house never cared about the so-called “unimportant” aspects of a case— like, say, basic fieldwork, or human decency.
“you want me to investigate… a kindergarten,” foreman deadpanned.
“correct. wear a little paper crown while you’re at it. maybe they’ll open up to you,” house replied, already half-focused on his laptop, probably googling something irrelevant like worms that cause empathy.
the case, in fairness, wasn’t that bad. six-year-old kid, previously healthy, now suddenly acting like he was starring in a low-budget horror film— aggression, mood swings, hallucinations. the blood work ruled out most of the obvious stuff. but if house didn’t send at least one of his ducklings to monitor the home or school like some misanthropic james bond, was it really even a dr. house case?
foreman sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “this is ridiculous. you know that, right?”
“yes,” house said, cheerful. “and yet, here we are.”
he grabbed the patient file off the desk and tossed it in foreman’s direction. “the school’s called happy sunbeam landfill or some shit like that. go bask in the innocence of childhood. bring me a macaroni necklace— or hand, foot, mouth will be good enough too.”
“if i get glitter on my suit, i’m suing you,” foreman muttered, already walking out the door.
house didn’t answer. he was too busy humming the dora the explorer theme under his breath.
the classroom was bright— painfully bright— bathed in sunlight and decorated with aggressively cheerful posters. smiling cartoon animals danced along the walls. the alphabet snaked around the ceiling in multicolored bubble letters. there was a suspicious amount of glitter on every surface— but then again, what could he have really expected?
surprisingly, it was neater than eric had imagined. the kind of organized chaos that only a very specific type of person could maintain. he made it four steps in before a child ran past him wearing a construction paper crown and yelling something about a dragon.
“hi! are you the nurse? for the uh— nit problem?”
a man around his age came forward, tall and lanky, with choppy longer hair and the unmistakable air of someone who hadn’t sat down in six hours and hadn’t had a single coherent thought since his past life. his smile was kind, if a little frazzled. his shirt had a suspiciously orange handprint near the hem.
“uhm… no, i— dr. foreman,” he said, adjusting his tone into something much more official. “i’m here about timothy langdon. just here to check the… classroom area.”
he smiled awkwardly. his lips stayed pressed in a tight, straight line, like they’d agreed on a legally binding contract not to show emotion.
“oh! of course, right— that makes more sense.” the man chuckled nervously, stepping aside to gesture at the room. “please, feel free to look around. timmy sits at that table near the windows— he likes the light. or maybe he just likes watching the squirrels fight.”
there was a loud bang from the corner followed by suspicious silence. the man flinched slightly but didn’t look. “ignore that. probably the blocks again.”
foreman blinked. a child puked. a different child screamed it’s lungs out.
“are you the teacher of this…?” foreman asked, gesturing at the classroom like it might bite him.
“huh? oh— yes, but no— i’m, uh, i’m a teacher,” the man stammered, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his cardigan. “i teach in the class next door. miss y/l/n’s on holiday leave. i’m just covering while.. y’know— she’s gone.”
“oh. alright then.” foreman nodded, already scanning the room with the practiced deadness of a man who did not go to med school to step on glitter. he pulled a plastic baggie from his pocket and started sealing up a few sticky, waxy crayons like they were crime scene evidence.
kevin blinked. “you’re bagging the crayons?”
“they’ve also been in someone’s mouth. just so you know.”
foreman froze for half a second, then resumed collecting them like it was just another tuesday.
“i’m mr. peterson— kevin. kevin peterson,” he added quickly, cheeks going a little pink. “i could, um… i could give her your number? or— or you could just take hers. if you need it. for the case, i mean.”
he paused. “for miss y/l/n. not me. not— not my number. i mean, unless you— but it’s not. obviously.”
foreman gave him a long, unreadable look.
kevin looked like he wanted to crawl into the hamster enclosure and stay there forever. but then again, kevin also resembled the hamster’s intelligence.
“…i’ll take hers,” foreman said eventually.
kevin handed over a sticky note that looked like it had been yanked off a whimsical desk calendar. it had her name in bubble letters and a doodle of a duck wearing a party hat.
foreman blinked. “you sure this is her number?”
“oh yeah. i texted her yesterday. she said she was making friendship bracelets and soup.”
a child shrieked from somewhere down the hall.
kevin flinched this time.
after examining the classroom, dodging a tower of blocks, and cringing at approximately eight snotty children and one kid who barked at him, foreman returned to princeton plainsboro with the kind of expression usually reserved for war veterans and people who’ve worked retail during christmas.
house was mid-thought— leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, twirling his cane and lazily bouncing a tennis ball against the wall in slow, rhythmic thunks.
foreman’s hand landed flat on the desk. the tennis ball missed its mark, flew sideways, and bounced pitifully three times before hitting the baseboard with a final, sad little thud.
house blinked. “well that’s one way to kill a vibe.”
“teacher’s number,” foreman said flatly.
he dropped a sticky note onto the desk with the same energy as someone tossing a crime weapon into evidence.
house squinted at it. “is this… is that a duck?”
“it’s wearing a party hat.”
house peeled the note off the file folder, holding it like it might be contagious. “this is the woman who teaches the kid?”
“yeah. she’s on leave. her substitute nearly passed out when i asked for the number. i think he thinks i was flirting with him.”
house shrugged. “missed opportunity.”
he twirled the note once between his fingers, then leaned over and dialed the number on his office phone, expression already shifting into that specific brand of smug mischief that meant someone was about to have a bad time.
“you’re calling her?” foreman raised an eyebrow. “thought you’d make wilson do it.”
“too boring,” house muttered, waiting for the ring to connect. “besides, i’m curious what kind of woman willingly surrounds herself with small humans and glue sticks. clearly unhinged.”
house leaned back in his chair.
“let’s see what kind of sunshine freak answers this.”
the sun was bright in monaco, scorching in the best way possible— warmth draped lazily over your skin like a well-loved blanket fresh from the dryer.
you sipped slowly from a glass of icy tea, condensation slipping down the sides like it had nowhere else to be. lemon wedge perched on the rim. mint leaf, just for drama. the glass clinked softly each time you moved.
the garden café was quiet. not silent, just… calm. bees hummed lazily around the blooms. there was a light breeze that tickled the umbrella above your table, rustling the leaves like whispers. inside, a handful of voices buzzed low with conversation, the clatter of cutlery faint through the glass walls. somewhere nearby, birds chirped around a stone fountain— singing, splashing, living their best vacation lives.
your phone was buried deep in your tote bag, somewhere between a novel you hadn’t cracked open yet, three pens in different colors, a sparkly plastic pony, and an unfortunate number of sticker sheets you definitely meant to leave behind. you were on holiday. on break. this was your break.
as a child, you’d always daydreamed about monaco— the yachts, the water, the postcard beaches and tiny cafés where everyone sounded vaguely poetic. now, here you were, finally living the dream: tan lines, iced tea, and zero children yelling about boogers.
with a dramatic sigh and the poise of someone expecting spam or maybe a well-meaning parent, you dug your phone out and answered without checking the number.
then, a voice. deep. impatient. definitely not your mom.
“how many kids in your classroom have coughed up blood in the past month?”
“i— sorry?” you said, politely, because that was your default response to being asked wildly aggressive questions by strangers while on vacation.
“not a hard question. coughing. blood. any incidents?”
you sat up slightly in your chair, eyebrows furrowing, one hand pressing your phone tighter to your ear like that might help translate what the hell was happening.
“i… think you might have the wrong number?”
“so you’re not deaf or dead. that’s a plus. c’mon be useful i’m paying for international calls”
birds chirped in the background. someone popped a champagne bottle three tables away.
“…is this— um, is this about little timmy feeling unwell?”
“wow,” the voice replied, absolutely deadpan. “you do know the names of the kids you teach. i lose a bet.”
you sat up straighter, now full schoolteacher mode activated. “of course i know timmy. he gave me a friendship bracelet last week and told me i was ‘the prettiest grown-up besides his mom.’ what’s going on? is he okay?”
“if by ‘okay’ you mean actively hallucinating and punching a nurse, sure. he’s thriving.”
you gasped. “timmy would never—”
“well, turns out six-year-olds are full of surprises. especially when they seem to resemble a wild chimp.”
you froze. “wait. seriously?”
“no, i made that up for fun,” the man snapped, voice laced with sarcasm. “yes, seriously. i’m trying to solve his case, and apparently you’re the only one with access to his natural habitat, aka the glitter-encrusted chaos cave he learns the alphabet in.”
“yeah. that. i sent one of my minions— dr. foreman— to scope it out. came back emotionally scarred and covered in sequins. but he got your number, so. hi.”
you blinked again. “who is this?”
“dr. gregory house. diagnostician. charming misanthrope. not a fan of sunshine but willing to make an exception if you’re useful.”
you leaned back slowly in your chair and looked up at the clear blue sky, exhaling through your nose. the sun was dipping lower, painting the clouds soft shades of peach and lavender, but the warmth still clung to the air, stubborn and sticky.
“…this is so not in my vacation itinerary.”
after a beat, you found your voice again. quiet but steady, like a warm breeze.
“is there… any way i can help? i assume that’s why you’re calling, no?”
there was a brief silence on the other end.
then, a voice— gruff, skeptical, but with an almost imperceptible hint of curiosity— answered.
“help? you? a kindergarten teacher?”
you smiled softly, even though he couldn’t see it. “i get around. and sometimes, the smallest humans have the biggest clues.”
house chuckled— dry, like gravel under a boot. “alright, sunshine. tell me— what’s the weirdest thing you’ve seen timothy do lately?”
you thought for a moment, then replied, “well, one day he refused to eat anything unless it was purple. declared it a ‘purple-only day.’ also, he kept trying to convince his classmates that the floor was lava, but only under the blue chairs.”
“floor is lava. classic,” house muttered. “and the coughing? the blood?”
“it’s only happened twice with me present,” you said carefully. “both times when he was especially upset or scared.”
there was another pause, then house’s voice softened ever so slightly.
“you’re making this harder than it needs to be, you know.”
“how am i making it harder?” you furrowed your brows, genuinely confused, tilting your head like you’d just caught a riddle in midair— even if he couldn’t see you, the question hung between you.
there was a pause on the line, a soft sigh. then, the voice, just a little rough around the edges, said, “because you’re too nice. too calm. too… patient.”
you let out a small laugh, light and genuine, like sunshine slipping through the cracks of a stormy day. “and you’re not?”
“i’m a disaster. chaos is my aesthetic.”
you smiled wider, imagining it. “sounds exhausting.”
“it is. but i’m used to it.”
another pause, filled only by the faint sound of birds and distant chatter. the kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty— it feels… like waiting.
you sipped your now lukewarm tea. “so maybe we’re just different kinds of tired.”
he didn’t reply right away. when he finally spoke, there was a softness there you didn’t expect. “maybe.”
and in that moment, the sun dipped lower, the sky painting itself in pinks and golds, like the world was holding its breath.
