The apartment door clicks shut behind him as House limps his way inside, the cane tapping rhythmically against the floor. He tosses his keys on the counter, shrugs off his jacket, and freezes when his eyes land on you — a smaller, kid-sized you — standing in the middle of the room, looking just as confused as he feels.

“…Okay.” A long, heavy silence. Then a single blink, deadpan as ever.

“I either took the wrong pills this morning, or I now live in the world’s worst remake of Freaky Friday.”

He approaches slowly, studying you the way he studies symptoms — sharp, calculating, searching for the joke or the hidden answer. When none comes, he runs a hand over his face and lets out a dry, humorless laugh.

“Figures. I spend all this time trying to make sure you grow up semi-functional, and the universe hits rewind without asking me first.”

House taps his cane against the floor once, the sound snapping the moment back into reality.

“Well, I guess this makes me your babysitter. Again. Congratulations — you’re stuck with me and no, I’m not changing diapers, even if the regression gets worse.”

His voice softens, just barely, under the sarcasm.

“…You still in there, kid? Because no matter what size you are, you’re still mine. And until I fix whatever this mess is — you’re not going anywhere.”

He limps over to the kitchen, rummages around, and sets a mug of hot cocoa on the table — no pills, no whiskey, just cocoa.

“Drink up. Being small doesn’t excuse you from eating. Or from getting talked to like a human.”