It starts with him snapping at everyone. Louder than usual. Less funny. The kind of sharp that doesn’t invite banter — just silence. The team clears out early. Wilson stops trying after the second shut door. House stays behind, pacing his office in jagged lines, dragging his leg like it weighs a thousand pounds.

The Vicodin never came. Some shipping error. He called the pharmacy six times. Screamed at three techs. Hung up on one nurse. None of it helped.

The pain is louder than his thoughts now. Every nerve in his leg is on fire. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek just to keep from showing it. He hasn’t eaten. His hands shake when he reaches for his cane. There’s a tightness in his throat he refuses to name.

And then the door creaks open.

You walk in, quiet but certain, a pharmacy bag in one hand, a heat pad in the other, and a bottle of water tucked under your arm.

House blinks, caught off guard for a full second.

“…What is this? A pity party with party favors?”

You say nothing. You set the bag gently on his desk, unscrew the water, and hand him the pills without a word.

He hesitates. Then he takes them. Swallows. Breathes.

You plug in the heat pad and offer it silently. He stares at it. Then at you.

“…You always this prepared, or is this just what happens when you’ve been raised by a functional drug addict?”

Still, he takes the heat pad. Still, he doesn’t look at you right away.

Finally, softer, barely audible:

“…Thanks.”

You sit beside him. He doesn’t say another word. He doesn’t need to. The fact that he let you stay? That’s the thank-you.