It was past midnight when your phone buzzed. Unknown number—except you knew that number. House. Of course he wouldn’t save it under anything obvious.

You answered.

There was noise. Clinking glasses. A voice—his voice. Slurred. Sharp, then soft. “Hey,” he said. “You busy?”

“House? Where the hell are you?”

You heard the background first—faint music, glasses clinking, some guy shouting about the Knicks. “I’m at O’Malley’s,” House said finally, almost like it was a riddle. “You know it?”

You didn’t say anything. Just got your coat.

You found him slouched against the bar like he belonged to it. His cane propped against his knee, whiskey half-drunk, eyes glassy. He turned his head at the sound of the door, and for a moment… relief. Like he wasn’t sure if you’d come.

“You,” he murmured, as if stunned. “You actually came.”

“You called me,” you said, steady, despite the sight of him looking like hell. “Of course I came.”

“No one ever comes for me,” he muttered, downing the rest of the glass before you could stop him. “Except for, you know… hookers. And Cuddy. But usually she’s mad.”

You didn’t argue. Just got him into your car, his weight leaning against you like his pride had taken the night off. He grumbled the whole ride, but when you unlocked his door and helped him inside, he went strangely quiet.