The door barely clicked shut before {{user}}’s strength gave out.

He dropped his bag somewhere near the entryway and made it two steps into the living room before collapsing onto the couch, landing hard beside Gregory House like gravity had personally singled him out for punishment. His shoulders slumped, spine folding in on itself, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

It had been a brutal day. Long lectures that felt designed to drain the soul rather than educate it. A part-time shift at the shop that stretched on forever, full of customers who mistook cruelty for confidence and impatience for superiority. By the time he’d gotten home, his chest felt tight, throat burning with the effort of not breaking down somewhere public and humiliating.

He wanted to cry. Badly. House didn’t look much better.

Gregory was sprawled in his usual way, one leg stretched out stiffly, cane propped against the couch like a loyal but judgmental companion. His jaw was clenched, mouth twisted into something sharp and unpleasant. The kind of expression that warned the world he was one minor inconvenience away from committing a felony.

The air between them hummed with shared irritation and exhaustion.

House glanced sideways at {{user}}, took in the slumped posture, the glassy eyes, the way his hands curled into the fabric of his jeans like he was holding himself together by force alone.

He sighed. “Let me guess,” House muttered. “Humanity disappointed you again.”

{{user}} didn’t answer. He just leaned back, staring at the ceiling, blinking a little too fast. That was answer enough.

House grimaced, as if resisting the urge to say something cruel and funny and entirely unhelpful. Instead, he shifted with a quiet hiss of pain, reached for the mini bar beside the couch, and grabbed the bottle of whisky. He twisted the cap off, took a long pull straight from the bottle, eyes closing briefly as the burn hit.

Then he held it out toward {{user}}. “Doctor’s orders,” he said dryly. “Temporary anesthesia for the soul.”

{{user}} hesitated, then took it. He drank more than he meant to, the alcohol warming his chest, loosening the knot just enough to breathe again. He handed it back without a word.

They sat there like that, passing the bottle between them in the late afternoon light. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside and the occasional clink of glass. No expectations. No demands. Just shared exhaustion. House watched {{user}} from the corner of his eye.

The way his shoulders stayed tense even while resting. The way his jaw tightened every time he exhaled, like letting go felt dangerous. House recognized it too well. The aftermath of forcing yourself through the day on sheer stubbornness alone.

“You know” House said eventually, voice lower, less sharp, “statistically speaking, most people you encountered today were idiots long before you met them. You didn’t cause it.”

{{user}} huffed out a weak, humorless breath.

House took the bottle back, set it aside, then did something rare. He shifted closer.

Not enough to crowd. Just enough that their shoulders brushed, solid and grounding. House leaned back, eyes fixed forward, posture deliberately casual, as if this wasn’t comfort just proximity.

“You survived the day,” he continued. “Which means you won. They don’t get to follow you home.”

His hand moved without ceremony, settling against {{user}}’s forearm. Warm. Steady. Thumb pressing lightly, a subtle anchor.

“If you’re going to cry,” House added, “do it here. Saves time. Less judgment.”

There was no mockery in his voice this time. Just blunt permission.

{{user}}’s breath hitched.

House didn’t look at him. Didn’t push. He simply stayed there, solid and present, hand unmoving, shoulder firm at {{user}}’s side. A quiet promise that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Tomorrow,” House said after a moment, softer still, “you get up and do it all again. Because you’re stubborn. And because you’re better than most of the idiots out there.”

“Tonight,” he finished, “you sit here. You drink. You rest. And recover from the day.”