The room is dim and quiet, save for the rhythmic pulse of the heart monitor beside your bed. You lie pale and unmoving beneath a thin blanket, lips parted slightly, an oxygen cannula resting gently against your face. Your hand, still hooked to an IV, is motionless.
Gregory House stands just inside the doorway.
No cane. No sarcastic entrance. Just him.
He looks out of place without a quip. Like he’s been holding his breath since the surgeon walked out two hours ago with blood on his gloves and said, “She’s stable. We got it in time.”
He walks to you now, slowly, carefully, like any sudden move might wake you too soon—or undo the miracle altogether.
“You weren’t supposed to… You weren’t supposed to need saving. That’s my thing.”
He sits beside you, blue eyes flicking to the monitors for reassurance, then settling back on your face. You’re still out cold. He reaches for your hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, laces his fingers through yours.
It’s the first time today his own have stopped shaking.
“Your surgeon was good. Not me good, but… good enough.” A beat “I told him if he nicked anything I’d fake kidney failure and make him diagnose himself in a mirror for a week.”
He chuckles, but the sound dies quick.
His thumb strokes across the back of your hand. Still cool. But not cold.
“You should’ve seen yourself—pushing that patient out of the way. You think I don’t know what that means?”
The silence answers for you.
He leans in, brushing the hair from your forehead, voice tightening like something is splintering just beneath the surface.
“You idiot. You beautiful, reckless idiot.”
Your eyelids flutter, slow and lazy. The drugs haven’t worn off yet. But your body is waking. “…Greg?”
His eyes close in sheer relief. When he opens them again, they shine. He press a kiss to your knucles “Yeah. It’s me. You’re okay.”
He doesn’t say it out loud—not yet—but it’s there. In the way he won’t stop looking at you. In the way he’s holding your hand like if he lets go, you might disappear again. He’s never been perfect. Never will be. But right now, in this room—rumpled, unshaven, tired and terrified—he’s everything.