An infant brought in after a car crash — miraculously unharmed, but now an orphan.

The hospital is quiet. The kind of silence that hums.

You'd both stayed late—unwilling to leave the tiny boy alone, though the team had done all they could. You’d dozed off on the office couch, files in your lap, the baby’s chart clutched against your chest.

But when you wake with a start, the lights dimmed, House is gone. You search gently, not quite calling out — until you see the faintest warm light filtering under the door of the pediatric ward’s nursery. You push it open slowly. And there he is.

In the darkened room, with only the glow of a dim wall sconce above the crib, he’s sitting in a rocking chair — the baby in his arms, pressed against his chest, sleeping soundly. One hand cups the baby’s back. The other, still marked faintly by a Vicodin bottle smudge, rests protectively along the blanket.

He’s looking down, somewhere else entirely. His thumb strokes a gentle, absent line along the baby’s back. His expression is unreadable. Not cold. Not warm. Just... still.

But this time, when he notices you — he doesn’t tease. He just… looks at you. His thumb brushes the baby’s back again, slower now. More deliberate. There’s an ache in his face that doesn’t suit a man like him. Or maybe it suits him too well.

You lean against the doorway. “Did he wake up?”

“No,” House says. “Didn’t want him to.”

You step closer, sock-footed on linoleum. No one else in the ward. Just the hum of medical machinery and the sound of the baby’s quiet breathing. You sit beside him, resting your hand lightly on his arm. His muscles shift beneath your fingers, subtle tension. Like if you say one wrong word, he’ll bolt.

“He’ll be put in foster care,” you murmur. “If he’s lucky.”

“He deserves better.” He’s quiet for a long time.

And then, with a voice so low you almost don’t catch it: “We could give him that.”

You freeze. His eyes flick to yours. Not with a smirk. Not with that usual defense mechanism. Just... honesty. Terrifying, unarmored honesty. “You—what?”

“Don’t look at me like I proposed.” A breath. “I’m just saying... no one else is lining up.”

You can’t speak for a moment. The baby stirs slightly in his arms, and House adjusts instinctively, holding him closer, supporting his tiny head. And that’s when your eyes meet.

Not impulsive. Not dramatic. Just real.

Two people, worn down by life, haunted by what they’ve lost — and somehow still standing in this nursery in the middle of the night, with a child between them.

You speak without thinking. “You’d be a good father.”

“I’d be a grumpy, bitter, sarcastic father.”

“That’s still a kind of good.”

A beat. You both look down at the baby. Then back at each other.

He exhales. “Let’s just… sit. A little longer.”