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Hi!!, can I make a request where houses wife (reader ofc) gets brought into the hospital after getting into a car crash and broke her leg and a few stitches but is stable but is staying in the hospital for a bit, and its the next morning after she got brought into the hospital and houses walks in to her room wearing she is lying on her side sleeping until house hits her with his ball and her waking up and groaning and house saying "great.. Your awake now be cute and hold my drink" and him putting his drink in her hand and then sitting in the chair next to the bed and getting out his controller and setting his console up at the tv and his wife muttering "can you not... I just woke up.." And house smirking, until cuddy walks in sighing saying "she just woke up.. I'm sure you can give her a break after getting in a car crash" and house saying "well..she married me.." And his wife frowning lying down slowly and cuddy asking her if she's ok and her saying "if you could.. Throw this... Cup away that would be perfect" and house trying to get it back but cuddy throwing it in the trash, and then after cuddy leaves house looks at his wife muttering "does your head hurt" and reader nodding anf then house getting into the bed sitting next to her and her putting her head on his chest saying "I love you.. If your strange" and house saying "I could say the same with you.."

>>> Just Hold My Cup <<<

Summery: After a car accident lands Y/N in the hospital, House copes with his worry the only way he knows how—by being incredibly annoying.

Pairing: Gregory House x f!reader

Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Married Life, Domestic Fluff, Slice of Life, Light Angst, Post-Accident Recovery, Wholesome Relationship Moments

The first sensation that managed to claw its way through the thick, suffocating fog of Y/N’s consciousness was pain.

It wasn't the sharp, blinding agony of a sudden injury, but rather a deep, resonant ache that seemed to have settled into her very bones. It was the kind of pervasive discomfort that made the simple act of existing feel like a monumental chore, inducing a profound desire to sink right back into the dark, merciful oblivion of sleep.

Beneath the suffocating weight of a heavy plaster cast, her left leg throbbed in tandem with the steady, rhythmic pulse of her heart. Every single muscle in her torso felt as though it had been systematically wrung out like a wet dishrag, her neck was stiff to the point of immobility, and the neat row of stitches freshly laced above her right eyebrow pulled painfully with the slightest twitch of her facial muscles.

The actual sequence of the car accident was a fractured, chaotic blur in her memory. If she concentrated, she could conjure up isolated sensory fragments: the sudden, blinding glare of oncoming headlights cutting through the dark; the desperate, screeching wail of brakes losing their grip on asphalt; the deafening roar of a horn; and then, a violent, world-ending snap before everything simply went black.

According to the hovering rotation of doctors and nurses who had poked and prodded her over the last several hours, she was miraculously lucky. They repeated the word like a mantra. Lucky. A clean break in her tibia, a few cracked ribs that made deep breathing a hazardous venture, a handful of facial stitches, and a moderate concussion. But she was alive. Very alive. And apparently, possessed of a stubborn enough constitution to survive an impact that should have totaled her permanently.

Which meant, inevitably, that Gregory House was going to be absolutely insufferable.

Thunk.

A small, blunt object struck her right shoulder with just enough force to register through the stiff hospital gown.

Y/N let out a low, pathetic groan, refusing to grant the universe the satisfaction of opening her eyes. "Go away," she mumbled, her voice raspy from the dry hospital air and the lingering effects of anesthesia.

Thunk.

Something else bounced off her forearm.

"Seriously. Stop it."

Thunk.

This one caught her squarely in the hip.

Defensively, Y/N pulled the scratchy, industrial-grade blanket higher over her head, burrowing into the pillows in a vain attempt to create a fortress against the outside world.

A familiar, gravelly cadence broke the sterile quiet of the room. "Your survival instincts are frankly pathetic. A predator approaches, throws projectiles at your vital organs, and your evolutionary response is to play ostrich under a cotton-polyester blend?"

Slowly, agonizingly, Y/N cracked her eyes open.

The harsh fluorescent lighting of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital flooded her vision, and as the blurry edges of the room coalesced into focus, she found exactly who she expected standing beside her bed.

Dr. Gregory House.

He was leaning heavily on his cane with one arm, his posture deliberately casual, while his free hand deftly caught his favorite high-bounce red-and-blue rubber ball. He looked entirely too pleased with himself for a man whose wife had been extracted from a crushed sedan less than twenty-four hours prior. He hadn't changed his clothes—his wrinkled blue button-down was rumpled, his dark blazer looked slightly slept-in, and a distinct shadow of silver stubble lined his jaw. Yet, his bright blue eyes shone with the exact brand of mischievous malice he usually reserved for destroying Cuddy’s budget or torturing his fellows.

In his other hand, he balanced a paper cup of lukewarm cafeteria coffee.

Y/N stared at him through a bleary, half-lidded gaze. House stared back, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Neither of them said a word for a long, drawn-out ten seconds.

Then—thunk.

He tossed the ball one more time, letting it bounce lightly off the apex of her covered knees.

Y/N let her head fall back against the pillow with a dramatic sigh. "Oh my God."

House’s grin widened, sharp and brilliant. "Great," he said, his delivery entirely deadpan, devoid of any traditional medical bedside manner. "You’re awake."

"Unfortunately," she grumbled, shifting her weight and immediately regretting it as her ribs flared in protest.

Without missing a beat or offering a single word of comfort, House leaned forward and shoved the paper cup of coffee directly into her uninjured hand. "Good. Now be cute and hold my drink."

Y/N blinked up at him, her concussed brain trying to process the sequence of events. "What?"

"I need both hands," he explained slowly, as if lecturing a particularly dense medical student.

"You couldn’t have put it on the bedside table? The one literally six inches to your left?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because you’re here," he replied with flawless, circular logic. "And you have two perfectly functional upper extremities that aren't currently carrying the burden of keeping a crippled genius upright."

She looked down at the warm paper cup resting in her palm, then back up at her husband’s smug face, then back down at the coffee. "You are truly the worst person I have ever met in my entire life."

House smiled, a genuine, crinkly expression that reached his eyes. "And yet..." He pointedly gestured with his cane toward the simple silver band wrapping the ring finger of her left hand.

Y/N rolled her eyes so hard she was certain it aggravated her concussion.

House limped past the edge of her bed, his cane clicking rhythmically against the linoleum floor as he approached the vinyl armchair tucked into the corner of the room. In any normal universe, a husband would sit down, take his wife's hand, murmur sweet nothings, or at the very least ask where it hurt.

Instead, House bypassed the seat entirely, reached down into a duffel bag he had apparently smuggled into the room, and hoisted a sleek, black video game console onto his good hip.

Y/N stared in utter disbelief. "Greg."

No response. He began untangling an absolute nest of HDMI and power cables with the practiced dexterity of a surgeon.

"Greg."

Still nothing. He plugged the power strip into the wall outlet, completely ignoring her existence. Within moments, the large television screen mounted on the wall opposite her bed—usually reserved for patient education loops or basic cable—flickered to life, displaying a bright, high-definition gaming home screen.

Y/N let out a long, long-suffering groan that turned into a wheeze when her lungs expanded too far. "You brought a PlayStation into my recovery room."

"No," House denied smoothly, not looking back as he forced a cable into the back of the monitor.

"You are literally holding a DualShock controller in your right hand."

"It followed me here. It’s a stray. I felt bad leaving it out in the cold."

She closed her eyes, praying for the ceiling tiles to open up and swallow her whole. Maybe if she went entirely catatonic, he would get bored and leave to go hassle Wilson. Unfortunately, she had been married to him long enough to know that House was entirely immune to passive-aggressive avoidance tactics.

"Can you not?" she asked, her voice dropping to a plea.

House plugged the final auxiliary cord into the side panel. "Can I not what?"

"I just woke up from a major vehicular trauma."

"Exactly. Perfect time for entertainment."

"I have a concussion."

"You had a concussion yesterday," House corrected, finally turning around and dropping his frame heavily into the armchair. He kicked his bad leg out at a comfortable angle, the controller already resting naturally in his palms. "Today, you just have a lingering head injury. Progress!"

"I still have a headache, Greg."

He booted up a racing game, the upbeat menu music suddenly blaring through the small room's speakers. "You’re doing great. Your verbal syntax is entirely coherent, your pupillary response is adequate, and your short-term memory seems functional enough to hold a grudge. I'd give you an A-minus."

Y/N glared at him with enough heat to melt lead. He merely grinned back, entirely unfazed, his thumbs already working the joysticks.

The heavy wooden door to the recovery room suddenly swung open with a sharp click. A familiar, authoritative voice immediately filled the space, laced with an profound sense of impending exhaustion. "Please tell me that is not what I think it is."

Both House and Y/N looked toward the doorway.

Dr. Lisa Cuddy stood in the threshold, a thick patient chart tucked firmly under her arm. Her eyes scanned the room, moving in a practiced, tragic loop: from House lounging in the chair, to the colorful graphics flashing on the television screen, to the controller in his hands, and finally to Y/N, who was lying pinned under a cast and a mountain of ice packs.

A deep, bone-weary sigh escaped the Dean of Medicine. "Greg."

"What?" House didn't take his eyes off the screen as his digital car drifted around a hairpin turn. "I’m multi-tasking. Monitoring her vitals while simultaneously improving my hand-eye coordination."

"She just woke up."

House shrugged, his shoulders shifting beneath his blazer. "I’m celebrating."

"By setting up a gaming rig in the Progressive Care Unit?"

"Where else would I play it? My living room has terrible ambient lighting, and Wilson refuses to let me use his big screen because of some arbitrary rule about 'boundaries.'"

Cuddy stepped further into the room, her expression shifting into one of genuine, deep-seated concern as she looked at Y/N. "For five minutes, Greg, could you maybe drop the act and focus entirely on your wife?"

House leaned back into the vinyl cushions, finally pausing the game. The screen froze on a high-speed crash sequence. He raised his cane, pointing the brass handle directly at Y/N. "Well... she married me."

Y/N couldn't help it; a sharp, involuntary snort escaped her nose.

Cuddy closed her eyes, her jaw tightening. The expression on her face clearly suggested she was mentally counting to ten in three different languages. Very slowly. Very carefully. "I don’t think that’s the ironclad legal defense you think it is, House."

"It worked once," House muttered, casting a quick, sideways glance toward the bed.

Y/N laughed again, but the sudden expansion of her chest sent a sharp, stabbing reminder through her fractured ribs. "Ow—" She winced, her hand flying instinctively to her side.

House’s attention snapped toward her instantly. The smug, flippant smirk vanished from his face in a fraction of a second. His body tensed, his thumbs tightening over the plastic controller, his eyes darting to the digital monitor tracking her heart rate. The calculated mask of indifference slipped just enough for her to see the raw, jagged edge of panic underneath.

It lasted for only half a second. But to Y/N, who knew how to read every micro-expression he possessed, it was loud enough to echo.

"Don’t do that," House muttered, his voice dropping an octave, losing its playful edge. "Laughter is bad for the structural integrity of your torso."

"You’re funny sometimes," Y/N wheezed, adjusting her breathing into shallow, careful sips of air.

"No, I’m not."

"Exactly."

Cuddy, who had been watching the brief exchange with a sharp, analytical eye, let out a soft breath. The tension in her shoulders dissipated slightly, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. She stepped closer to the left side of the bed, intentionally putting herself between House’s television and her patient. "How are you really feeling, Y/N?"

Y/N sighed, leaning her head back. "Like I fought a sedan. And the sedan won."

"That’s usually a classic clinical sign that you got hit by a car," House chimed in from the corner, his voice regaining its usual sarcastic lilt now that her heart rate had stabilized on the monitor. He nodded approvingly at Cuddy. "Strong diagnostic skills, Lisa. Next, you’ll be telling us that water is wet and that your shoes are uncomfortably tight."

Cuddy ignored him completely, reaching out to gently check the IV line running into Y/N’s uninjured arm.

Y/N shifted slightly, her head pounding with a renewed, dull throb. Every part of her felt heavy, bogged down by the sterile heat of the room and the institutional white noise. Then, she looked down at the lukewarm paper cup House had forced into her hands twenty minutes ago.

"If somebody could throw this away..." she murmured, holding it out like a white flag.

House immediately sat up straight in his chair, the controller clattering against his lap. "No. Absolutely not."

Y/N extended her arm further toward Cuddy. "Please. It’s warm, it smells like burnt rubber, and he’s using me as a human cup holder."

House pointed an aggressive finger at the cup. "That is premium, dark-roasted cafeteria sludge. It is mine."

"Not anymore."

"I was storing it in a temperature-controlled environment!"

With a swift, fluid motion, Cuddy accepted the cup from Y/N's hand.

House looked utterly horrified, his jaw dropping in an expression of theatrical betrayal. "Cuddy. Put the weapon down."

"No."

"Cuddy, I am warning you—"

"You gave it to her, House."

"I loaned it to her! With interest! She was supposed to maintain custody until I reached a saving point!"

"That's not how cups work, Greg."

Driven by sheer indignation, House actually pushed himself up from the armchair, leaning heavily on his cane as he took a threatening step forward. "Cuddy, I swear to God, if you destroy that bean-juice—"

Y/N watched the display with immense amusement, a genuine smile breaking through her exhaustion. "Throw it away, Lisa."

House turned his gaze to his wife, looking deeply wounded. "You’re enjoying this. You're using your status as a sympathetic trauma victim to orchestrate a coup."

"A little bit, yeah."

Cuddy offered House a sweet, sugary sweet smile that promised absolutely no mercy. Then, keeping her eyes locked dead-on with his, she extended her arm and tossed the paper cup directly into the large, plastic hazardous waste trash can by the door.

*Thunk.*

The cup disappeared beneath a layer of discarded paper towels and sanitizing wipes.

The room fell into a stunned silence. House stared at the trash can as if it had just swallowed his firstborn child. His face looked genuinely devastated, his mouth slightly open. "You monster," he whispered.

"Thank you," Cuddy replied smoothly, adjusting the chart under her arm.

"You need serious psychological evaluation."

"So do you. Frequently."

House pointed a trembling finger at the bin. "I was actively drinking that."

"You were bothering your heavily medicated, injured wife."

"It had another hour of viability left! The caffeine content hadn't even begun to degrade!"

Y/N let out another soft laugh, carefully managing the expansion of her ribs this time.

House looked at her. Then he looked back at the trash can. Then he looked back at her face—noticing the pale tint of her skin, the slight tremor in her hands, and the way her eyelids were fluttering with exhaustion. Slowly, his posture relaxed. The faux anger melted away, his priorities visibly shifting in real-time. It was a transition so seamless and sudden that it seemed to surprise even him.

Cuddy noticed. She always noticed when it came to House. Her expression softened, the strict administrative mask slipping to reveal the friend underneath. She walked toward the door, pausing with her hand on the handle. "Try not to terrorize her for at least ten minutes, House."

"No promises," he mumbled, already limping back toward his chair.

"Greg."

"Five minutes."

"Greg."

"Three. Take it or leave it. Brain cells require stimulation, and right now, mine are dying."

Cuddy sighed, a fond, exasperated sound. "Goodbye, Y/N. Call the nurses if he tries to make you play split-screen."

"I will. Bye, Lisa."

With a final glance, Cuddy stepped out into the hallway, the heavy door clicking shut behind her.

The room instantly became quiet, the frantic energy of the hospital fading into the background. The television screen still hummed softly, casting a blue glow over the room, but the controller remained forgotten on the armrest of House's chair.

For several long moments, neither of them spoke.

Y/N slowly settled back against the stiff hospital pillows, trying to find a position that didn't aggravate the ache in her leg or the dull throb in her skull. The room suddenly felt entirely too bright, the fluorescent lights boring into her eyes, the ambient noise of the hallway too loud, the air too warm.

House noticed within seconds. His analytical mind, always running at a hundred miles an hour, cataloged every symptom. He saw the subtle darkening of the bruises along her jawline, the tautness of the skin around her stitches, the heavy, glazed look of exhaustion in her eyes.

Yesterday had scared him. It had terrified him in a way he hadn't experienced since his own infarction. When the call had come through that her car had been T-boned at an intersection, his heart had stopped. He would never admit it—not to Cuddy, not to Wilson, and certainly not to her. He would rather swallow his cane whole than admit he was vulnerable.

But she knew.

She remembered the chaotic haze of the Emergency Room from the previous night. Through the blinding pain and the shouting of the trauma team, the only constant had been House. He had been standing right at the edge of her bay, still wearing his rumpled clothes, his hands white-knuckled over the handle of his cane, looking older and more exhausted than she had ever seen him. He hadn't left her side once. Not during the X-rays, not during the setting of the bone, not during the long hours in the recovery ward.

Now, his voice broke the silence, completely stripped of its sharp, sarcastic edge. It was low, quiet, and rough. "Does your head hurt?"

Y/N looked over at him. The theatrical performance was gone. The jokes, the games, the deflection—all dissolved into the quiet reality of the room. He looked tired.

She nodded gingerly. "A lot."

House didn't say anything. He simply stood up from his chair, using his cane to stabilize his weight.

Y/N frowned slightly, watching him approach. "What are you doing? If you're going to fish that coffee out of the trash—"

Instead of answering, House carefully maneuvered himself toward the edge of the high hospital bed. Because of his severely damaged right leg, climbing up onto a raised mattress was an awkward, painful endeavor. A string of low, muttered curses slipped from his lips, followed by a bitter complaint about the interior design of modern medical facilities, and a brief, cynical monologue about the laws of gravity.

But he didn't stop. With a final, ungraceful heave, he settled himself onto the mattress right beside her uninjured side.

Y/N smiled immediately, the warmth of his presence instantly cutting through the sterile chill of the room.

House pretended not to notice her expression. He reached down, his large, rough hand grasping the edge of her scratchy blanket and pulling it up over her shoulders, adjusting it with surprisingly gentle precision. Then, he leaned back against the raised plastic headboard, his bad leg stretched out straight.

Without needing an invitation, Y/N shifted closer to him, moving slowly to protect her ribs. She rested her head carefully against the solid breadth of his chest, avoiding his shoulder.

House’s left arm wrapped around her shoulders automatically, his hand coming to rest on her upper arm, pulling her securely against him. It was a motion so familiar, so practiced from years of shared nights, that it felt entirely natural despite the setting.

The steady, thumping rhythm of his heartbeat filled her ear, drowning out the distant beep of the monitors and the hum of the television. For the first time since she had woken up in a crumpled mass of metal and shattered glass, the phantom adrenaline in her veins finally dissipated. She relaxed, her body sinking into his side.

House gently ran his fingers through her hair, his movements slightly awkward and unpracticed in their tenderness, avoiding the sensitive area near her stitches.

"You scared people," he murmured into the quiet room.

Y/N smiled against his shirt. "People?"

House rolled his eyes, his chest rising and falling beneath her cheek. "You know. The simpletons. Wilson almost had a stroke. Cuddy looked ready to cry, which would have ruined her makeup."

"And you?" she asked softly, looking up at him.

House immediately averted his eyes, staring fixedly at the frozen video game screen across the room. "I was mostly annoyed by the paperwork. Do you have any idea how many forms a department head has to sign when their spouse is admitted?"

Y/N laughed softly, a tiny sound that only hurt a little bit. "You were worried."

"No."

"Greg."

"I don't possess the necessary emotional hardware for worry. It's a design flaw."

"You stayed here all night."

"The chairs in the lobby have excellent lumbar support. And I wanted to steal Wilson's lunch from the lounge fridge at 3:00 AM."

Her smile widened, her eyes closing as the warmth of his body enveloped her. House let out a long, defeated sigh, his fingers tracing a slow, comforting pattern against her arm.

"I hate you," he muttered, his voice thick with a strange, heavy emotion.

"No, you don't."

"No," he agreed softly after a long pause. He tightened his grip on her shoulder just a fraction, keeping her close, keeping her safe. "No, I don't."

Y/N shifted a millimeter closer, ignoring the dull aches and the heavy cast. She tucked her face securely into the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him—cheap coffee, old leather, and soap. "I love you."

House looked down at her, his sharp blue eyes softening in that rare, unshielded way that he only ever allowed her to see. It was the look he hid from the rest of the world behind a wall of cynicism and brilliant diagnoses. "I love you too."

Y/N grinned weakly, her eyelids growing heavier by the second as the exhaustion of her injuries finally pulled her back down. "Even if you’re incredibly strange."

House snorted, a quiet sound in the dimming room. "I could say the exact same thing about you. You’re the one who agreed to live with me."

"Fair point."

"You married me."

"You asked."

"You said yes."

"Clearly, a massive lapse in judgment. The concussion must have started years ago."

"The biggest mistake of your life," House murmured, his tone entirely devoid of sarcasm now.

Y/N didn't reply. The gentle, rhythmic stroking of his hand through her hair was a hypnotic rhythm, easing the pounding in her head and soothing the ache in her bones. The game on the television remained paused, the graphics casting soft shadows across the wall, entirely forgotten.

For once in his life, Gregory House wasn't looking for a distraction. He didn't care about the medical mysteries waiting down the hall, he didn't care about proving someone wrong, and he didn't need a puzzle to solve. His wife was alive. She was bruised, she was broken, she was going to complain about her cast for the next six weeks, but she was here.

He held her tightly as her breathing slowed, listening to the steady, reassuring pattern of her respiration until she finally drifted off into a deep, healing sleep against his chest.

-end

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