Chapter Text
The first thing Gregory House noticed when he woke up was that his right leg was dangling off the bed and absolutely no part of his back was touching the mattress.
The second thing he noticed was the small, warm body splayed diagonally across the bed like a drunk starfish.
Her face was mashed into his pillow, golden-brown curls haloed in sleepy chaos, one tiny arm flung dramatically across his chest as if protecting him from the monsters under the bed.
He sighed, blinking blearily at the ceiling.
“Morning, bed thief.”
Eve didn’t stir. Her breath puffed out softly against his shirt, her body twitching in that toddler way, half-dreaming, half adjusting. Her worn blue pyjama shirt was riding up, revealing the faint tan line from all the time they’d spent at the park last weekend. Her flannel pants were covered in faded dinosaurs. No glitter. No frills. Just soft, sturdy cotton and little T. Rexes who looked mildly offended by everything.
House glanced at the clock. 6:08 AM.
He closed his eyes again. Technically, he could sleep another twenty minutes before they had to start the morning shuffle. But the warmth of the bed was long gone, replaced by the sharp edge of a tiny heel nestled into his rib cage.
Parenthood. Romanticized by fools, survived by sarcasm.
He pushed himself up with a groan, careful not to jostle her too much. She’d had a rough night. Some dream about a broken robot dog that had ended with tears somewhere around 3 AM. She’d refused to say much else but had curled under his comforter with the practiced ease of someone who had done this before.
Which she had. Often.
House padded into the kitchen, running a hand through his hair and putting on a pot of coffee with the reverence of a priest preparing communion. His leg ached more than usual. Storm coming. Great.
As the coffee percolated, he opened the fridge and pulled out a small container labeled “EVE – MON.” Inside were little cut-up pieces of apple, a hard-boiled egg, and whole grain toast already prepped last night while she was in the bath, splashing like an otter and making up songs about spaghetti.
He also pulled out a single mini blueberry muffin, from a healthy bakery Wilson had sworn by and popped it into the microwave.
By the time he’d poured her milk and his coffee (sugar, no cream, bitterness optional but appreciated), there was the soft pad of feet behind him.
Eve stood in the doorway, hair sticking up in wild directions, holding her battered gray stuffed koala by one arm. She blinked at him with sleepy disdain.
“You took the blanket.”
House raised an eyebrow. “You took the bed.”
She sniffed and walked past him like a queen, climbing up into the chair at the small kitchen table.
He handed her the plate.
“I made you apple slices in shapes today,” he said, tone deliberately bland. “One is a heart. One is a cat. One might be a deformed space shuttle. Not sure.”
She examined them with a critical eye, then pointed to the misshapen one. “This is a potato.”
“I stand corrected.”
She picked up the potato-cat-heart-whatever and took a bite. “It’s good.”
“Obviously.”
He watched her for a moment. She didn’t talk much when she first woke up, which suited him just fine. He drank his coffee and studied her, this strange, small creature who had somehow become the center of his carefully protected, misanthropic world.
Same blue eyes as her mom, but her stare was all him: piercing, skeptical, constantly questioning.
He rarely thought about Eve’s mother. She had been a brief flicker. A woman from a medical conference in Chicago, not a doctor herself but brilliant in a different way, grounded and passionate. It hadn’t worked, of course. House didn’t work with people. But she’d left him with Eve. Literally. A note. A backpack. A baby. A decision.
And somehow, four years later, here they were.
“Do I have to wear the jeans today?” Eve asked, her voice still rough with sleep.
“You love the jeans. They have extra pockets.”
“They’re itchy.”
“You say that about everything that isn’t fleece.”
She folded her arms. “I want the green ones with the knees.”
“The ones that make you look like you lost a fight with a moss monster?”
She grinned, slightly. “Yeah.”
“Fine. But if anyone asks, you dressed yourself.”
Getting ready took longer than expected because Eve refused to wear socks with “weird bumps” and then insisted on brushing her own hair, which turned into a 7-minute standoff that ended with House trading one piece of chocolate for fifteen strokes of the brush. Victory? Questionable. But they made it out the door.
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital had not, in House’s opinion, improved with time.
But Eve liked the building specifically the elevators, the long halls, and the fact that Wilson’s office always had snacks.
As they entered through the side employee entrance (to avoid the disapproving looks of people who frowned upon bringing kids to work), House glanced down at her.
“You know the rules.”
Eve held up a finger. “Stay out of the labs.”
“Unless?”
“There’s a zombie outbreak.”
“Correct. And rule two?”
“No poking anything.”
“Even if it looks like a duck?”
“Especially then.”
“Good girl.”
They were barely inside when James Wilson appeared around the corner, lab coat over his shoulder, smile already forming.
“There she is!” Wilson crouched slightly. “Hey, superstar.”
Eve ran up and crashed into his legs in a hug.
“You bring your A-game today?” he asked, hoisting her up easily onto his hip. She nodded seriously.
“I have crayons,” she said. “And raisins.”
“Oh, we’re unstoppable.”
House rolled his eyes. “Can you two take your adorable sitcom act somewhere else? I have a team to ignore.”
Wilson grinned, adjusting Eve on his hip as she leaned against his shoulder.
“We’ll be in my office,” he said, already walking away. “Don’t screw up anything major.”
House watched them go, his daughter curled into his best friend’s side, already babbling something about the elevator buttons and a dog she saw on the way in. Wilson listened like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever heard.
And just like that, she was off his hands.
House limped toward the diagnostics department, sipping his second coffee of the day.
Time to solve someone else’s problem for a change.