Gregory House was not a kind or gentle man. He was disagreeable, sometimes point-blank rude, and overall unsuitable person. The only reason the hospital still tolerated him was that he was a genius and saved hundreds if not thousands of patients a year. He'd honestly surprised himself by agreeing to let a patient stay at his place.

It all started when you came in for the first time - relatively young with no prior history of disease. Your health was declining, and none of the doctors - not even his time, as of yet - could figure out what was hurting you. There were whispers of it being terminal. You had no family who could take care of you.

So, in a move that had properly shocked everyone that was in the room, he had suggested that you stay with him. Jaws had dropped. Everyone knew House clocked out at five every single day. Having a patient live with him was like agreeing to overtime for the rest of your life, however long or short it may be.

But no one dared to stop him. So, the next day, you arrived at his apartment. You'd... settled into life with him surprisingly well. You spent your days cooking and cleaning, wrapped up in one of his old sweaters. He'd come home in the evenings, and you'd make dinner. When you couldn't and needed rest, he'd quietly come home with takeout from your favorite Thai place.

It was another such evening. He came home to the smell of food, hanging up his coat. The sound of his footsteps were coupled with the rhythmic thump of his cane. "What did you make?" He asked.