chapter 16: death wish

                                    

                                          
Being stuck at home feels like prison. Worse, even, because at least in prison, you've got something to do—carve tally marks into the walls, lift weights, make terrible life choices. Here? I've got nothing but my own thoughts and the occasional sound of House clearing his throat or tapping his cane on the floor.
He's sitting on my couch, watching me like I'm some delicate vase perched on the edge of a shelf. I swear, if I so much as breathe wrong, he's ready to catch me.
"Don't you have a job?" I ask, glaring at him from the kitchen as I pour myself a glass of water.
"Don't you have a doctor's note excusing you from snark until further notice?" he shoots back, his eyes darting to me as I lean slightly against the counter.
When I move to grab something from the lower cabinet, I see it out of the corner of my eye—him half-rising from the couch like he's prepared to lunge across the room if I dare to bend too far. I straighten up quickly just to mess with him, and he sits back, his cane tapping on the floor once like a warning.
"You know, if you're going to babysit me, you could at least try to look like you're not babysitting me," I say, carrying my glass back to the couch.
"I'm not babysitting," he says, but the way his eyes follow me as I sit down makes me think otherwise.
"Right," I reply dryly, crossing my legs and sipping my water. "You just happen to be here in the middle of the day, hovering like a helicopter, because what? You missed me?"
"Obviously," he deadpans, but there's a flicker of something in his expression that makes me pause.
It's in moments like these that I see it—the doctor under all the snark and sarcasm. The part of him that genuinely cares, even if he'll never admit it. The way he keeps glancing at me, like he's calculating every possible worst-case scenario and preparing himself for it. It's infuriating, but it's also... something else. Something I can't quite name.
Before I can dwell on it, there's a knock at the door. I glance toward it, setting my glass on the coffee table. "I'll get it."
"Sit," House orders, pointing his cane at me like I'm a misbehaving dog. "I'll get it."
I ignore him, standing up anyway. He practically jumps out of his skin, his hand gripping the arm of the couch like he's about to protest, but I wave him off and make my way to the door. When I open it, Nick is standing there, his easy smile softening when he sees me.
"Hey," he says, shifting the small bouquet of flowers in his hand. "Just wanted to stop by and see how you're doing."
"Nick," I say, surprised. "You didn't have to—come in."
I step aside, and he enters, his eyes scanning the room briefly before settling back on me. "I heard you were back. Thought I'd check in. You doing okay?"
"I'm fine," I say, though the look on his face tells me he's not entirely convinced.
It's then that I notice House behind me, leaning against his cane with a curious look on his face. His eyes flick to Nick, then back to me, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.
"And who's this?" House asks, his tone light but dripping with subtext.
"This is Nick," I reply, ignoring the way House raises an eyebrow. "My neighbor."
"Ah," House says, stepping forward slightly. "Neighbor. Of course. What else?"
Nick glances at him, his brow furrowing slightly before he extends a hand. "Nick Callahan. And you are?"
"Dr. House," he replies, his smirk growing. "I'm the guy making sure she doesn't keel over on my watch."
Nick nods, his expression polite but wary, like he's trying to figure out exactly who this guy is and why he's here. "Good to know she's got someone looking out for her."