Gulp.. sorry for requesting again so soon u don't have to reply I just can't help stalking your page lol 😭😭
Would you do a traumatized little like 5-6 who suffers with PTSD/flashbacks and is weary to trust house because she thinks Noone intends well for her so he lowkey has to be nice to her and treat her softer than others but is still like a cocky jerk but in a nice way
Fractured, Not Broken (CG! Gregory House x GN! Reader)
Summary: After surviving an abusive childhood, you cope with PTSD while working as an intern under Dr. Gregory House. When a trigger pushes you into regression at the hospital, House unexpectedly steps in as a caregiver, showing you safety and trust for the first time.
Warning: Abuse, emotional trauma, physical trauma, PTSD, age regression, self-harm triggers, violence, mentions of burn injuries, anxiety, flashbacks, hospital setting, sensitive mental health themes
But I want to be spammed by your requests so please dont worry. I like requests! And I liked this one!
Since the day you were born, luck had never been on your side. Your parents were cruel, emotionally, physically, in every way that left scars long after the incidents ended. Your father’s anger had left permanent marks on your arms, burn scars from cigarettes that still ached sometimes, both physically and emotionally.
Your mother never intervened, she was silent, compliant, and as invisible to you as you had always been to the world.
Growing up, you learned quickly that you were a burden. Teachers didn’t notice you, classmates avoided you, and your voice barely seemed to exist. Your self-worth was practically nonexistent. And even now, years later, the past still reached out for you in sudden flashes, a scream, a screech of tires, a slammed door, triggers that hurled you back to moments you desperately wanted to forget.
You didn’t have a childhood. You were forced to cook, clean, and fetch things for your father, carefully navigating his temper while trying to survive.
When you finally turned eighteen, freedom felt like the first breath of fresh air after decades of suffocation. You left that house and never looked back.
Your therapist suggested age regression as a coping mechanism, and at first, it seemed strange, but you realized you’d already been doing it instinctively. Whenever trauma resurfaced, you retreated mentally to a younger, safer version of yourself. It was your shield against the world.
Moving to New Jersey for university was the first real step into independence. Studying medicine, you swore you’d dedicate your life to preventing the kind of pain you endured from happening to others. And somehow, despite all your lingering doubts, your resume earned you a place at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. It felt unreal, like you’d finally achieved something for yourself. Yet even with that success, the echoes of your past lingered, whispering that you didn’t truly belong.
Your attending was Dr. Gregory House. You researched him out of both admiration and curiosity, brilliant, unorthodox, mercilessly blunt, but undeniably gifted. You were eager to learn, to prove yourself, to finally be seen.
On your first day, you got lost navigating the hospital corridors. When you finally arrived outside House’s office, three other doctors were there. Your heart pounded.
“I-I’m (Y/N) (L/N), the new intern,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper, offering a small, shy smile.
House’s piercing blue eyes studied you, narrowing slightly as if trying to decipher you. “Ah, (L/N). Great start, late on your first day. I’ll let it slide this time. This is Cameron, Chase, and Foreman.” He gestured to each of them. Cameron smiled politely, Foreman nodded respectfully, and Chase’s easy grin made your stomach twist in nervous anticipation.
House launched into his case discussion, scribbling symptoms on the board, pushing the team for insights. You racked your brain and, almost automatically, recognized the pattern. Amyloidosis. Rare, serious, fitting perfectly. You muttered it quietly, almost afraid someone would hear. House did.
A faint, approving smirk tugged at his lips. “Not bad, (L/N). That’s a strong first guess.”
From that moment, you had caught his attention. For reasons he couldn’t quite name, he wanted to know you, beyond the intern, beyond the intelligence, to the person beneath. One late night, curiosity led him to your medical records. Each page pulled at him, your history gnawing at something in him that he rarely let surface.
Burn scars. PTSD. Trauma that didn’t fade. And yet here you were, functioning, surviving, striving. Something inside him softened, a rare, unexpected empathy tugging at him.
The next day, House had the rest of the team handle their own tasks, leaving you alone with him. He approached slowly, cane tapping softly against the floor. “Can I see your arm?” His voice lacked the usual sarcasm, replaced with a gentle, careful tone.
You hesitated, looking away, blinking back tears. You hadn’t let anyone see this side of you, not anyone. Not in years. But somehow, it felt safe with him.
His hands hovered over your arm, tracing the scars lightly. “What happened?”
No witty remark, no puzzle to solve. Just genuine concern. You shared your story, the words spilling out in a trembling whisper. And for once, someone didn’t dismiss you. Even your age regression, which he lightly teased as “adorable,” felt safe enough to admit.
Months passed. You stabilized, therapy helping, confidence growing. But stability was fragile.
One day, you were assigned a patient with burns. The moment you stepped into the room, the past hit you like a physical blow. You were back in that smoke-filled living room, your father’s anger pressing down, the sting of burning flesh. Panic surged. Your knees nearly buckled, and before you could think, you regressed to the age you were at that point of time, five years old.
Hiding in the bathroom, you clutched your lab coat, sobbing quietly, trying desperately to gather yourself. But the fear refused to release you. You couldn’t go back out there, not yet.
Then you heard it, the soft tap of a cane against the tiles.
“Hey.” House said. “You’re safe. I promise.”
You sniffled, burying your face further into your arms, but the sound of his voice, calm and grounding, made your trembling slow just a little. He crouched slightly so that his eyes were level with yours. “Look at me, kiddo.”
You hesitated, fear still prickling at your skin, but curiosity and a strange trust nudged you. Slowly, you peeked. His blue eyes were different than usual. No sarcasm, no judgment. Just patience, and for some inexplicable reason, care.
“I know it’s scary,” he said quietly. “I get it. Things hurt, they leave scars. You don’t have to face it alone.” He reached out carefully, letting his hand hover near yours, not forcing contact. “I can’t fix the past. Nobody can. But I can… help you survive it. Right here, right now.”
The words sank in slowly, almost painfully. Nobody had ever said anything like that to you. Not your parents. Not teachers. Not friends. But here he was, offering something you didn’t even know you needed, safety.
“You s-stay..?” you whispered, voice barely audible. Your words were messy.
House’s smirk flickered, he could never resist a little teasing, even now, but it was gentler than usual. “Yeah. I’ll stay. I’m not going anywhere. Even if you insist on turning into a five year old mess in a bathroom, I’m sticking around.”
That tiny touch of humor made something inside you relax enough to let out a shaky laugh, muffled against the lab coat. He waited, patient, letting you regain control at your own pace.
After a few long moments, you felt brave enough to speak again. “I… I don wan be seen like this..”
House shook his head slowly, leaning closer. “Then don’t. You’re not showing this to anyone but me. And if anyone ever tries to… we’ll deal with it together. Capisce?”
You nodded, a little of the tension seeping out. You dared a small smile. “Okay…”
He offered his hand, half as an anchor, half as a lifeline. Tentatively, you took it, smaller fingers gripping his rougher, stronger ones. “Good,” he said, squeezing gently. “Now let’s get you through this. Step by step. One breath at a time.”
For the next few minutes, House guided you through grounding techniques you had practiced in therapy, slow breaths, naming objects in the room, counting to ten. He didn’t rush you, didn’t speak too much, just there, a constant presence in the storm.
When your sobs finally faded and your body stopped shaking, you leaned against him, still small, still vulnerable, but feeling… safe. For the first time, you realized it wasn’t weak to need someone.
“See?” House murmured, resting a hand on your back. “You’re okay. You made it. And I’ve got you.”
You rested your forehead against his chest, heart still racing but steadier now. “T-thank you.” You whispered.
House’s rare, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t thank me yet. You’re the one who survived it all this long. I’m just here to make sure you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”
For the first time in your life, the idea of letting someone in, letting someone care for you didn’t feel terrifying. It felt possible. And with House at your side, you felt, maybe for the first time, like it truly could be okay.
He stayed with you until you felt ready to leave the bathroom, guiding you gently back into the world outside, step by step. And though the world beyond still held its dangers, for the first time, you knew you didn’t have to face them alone.
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