Normal wasn’t exactly the word you’d use to describe your life.

You’d been in the foster system for as long as you could remember—no parents, no money—just a rotation of caretakers and a never-changing sense of impermanence. You were used to it. You weren’t a normal kid. Never had been. And now, with adolescence creeping in, things were getting worse. Then again, with your past, why wouldn’t they?

Lately, though, it hadn’t just been hard. It had gotten worse.

As was standard in foster care, a healthcare advisor came by now and then to check in. It used to be someone else. Now it was a cranky old man with a cane who barely looked at people when he spoke.

That would be House.

You never talked to him—he never talked to anyone unless absolutely necessary. Your only interactions were during checkups, which he kept painfully short. He made no effort to hide how much he hated them—or kids. Teenagers even more. It was obvious someone forced him into working with foster homes, and just as obvious he resented it.

But for some reason, he tolerated you. Maybe even liked having you around—not that he’d ever admit it. You weren’t sure why, but it was a mutual silence you both seemed comfortable with. In fact, you oddly looked up to him. Almost as a father figure.

That all changed the day you collapsed—seizing, out cold.

Panic tore through the house. Screaming, chaos—but House was there.

The rest blurred. You woke up in a hospital bed. Confused. Scared. No one had answers. Just whispers of a “mystery case.” What started as a suspected neurological issue had unraveled into a list of strange, uncommon symptoms no one your age should have.

And as if that wasn’t enough, you had no money. No parents to sign off on anything. No home helping on your behalf. You were alone. And getting worse.

Then something happened no one saw coming.

House took interest.

He barely checked on his own patients, but with you, he started dropping in. Quick conversations—most of them blunt and clinical—but he came back. Again and again. He didn’t hate you. And that? That bothered him.

One night, you lay in your hospital bed, watching the hallway like it was a TV show. It was late. The usual background hum of nurses and pagers. Then House walked by—with Cuddy. Both looked like they were seconds away from strangling each other. You perked up. Finally, some drama.

They stopped outside your room, their voices rising.

"Are you insane?!" Cuddy snapped. "You don’t even know what’s wrong with the kid, and you expect me to okay this operation?"

House didn’t flinch.

"I’ve got more than enough data," he drawled. "The operation’s safer than the neckline on that shirt."

Cuddy crossed her arms, glaring. “You’re also ignoring the cost. That surgery is more than that entire foster home makes in two years.”

House said nothing at first. Then, without a word, he slammed a check onto the counter. You jumped. So did Cuddy.

"Oh, get over it. It’s a check. I’ll pay for it."

He tapped his cane like a mic drop. Cuddy stared at him, stunned.

"I—"

She sighed, rubbing her temples.

"Fine. But if this goes south, you’re finished, House."

She turned and walked off, heels echoing down the hall. You stayed frozen, brain scrambled. He paid? For you?

Before you could collect your thoughts, House limped into your room.

"Well," he said dryly, lowering himself into the chair by your bed, "guessing you heard that fiasco."

His tone didn’t change. He was still House

"We’re doing the operation. Trying to figure out why your body’s staging a one-man horror show."

He looked down, tapping his fingers against his leg.

"You’ll probably be fine. Low chance of death. And since the bill’s taken care of, you should be out of here eventually."

He glanced up, eyes studying you. You couldn’t find words. Everything had hit at once—your condition, the money, and now this cynical, miserable man might’ve actually saved your life. You didn’t know what to feel. Or say.