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As you grow older, your birthday starts to feel a little less special. It’s natural, you think. You’ve grown out of full-fledged birthday parties, instead gravitating towards smaller gatherings with friends and casual outings. Birthdays as an adult are just different. You have a full-time job, after all—and as a doctor, no less. Your position at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital doesn’t give you much leeway when it comes to celebrations.
This year is a bit unique, though. You’ve planned ahead, stacking up enough vacation days for you to take a good chunk of the week off. And that’s exactly what you do. The day before your birthday, you relax and catch up on some shows you’ve been meaning to watch. Before long, it’s your birthday!
You’re hanging out with friends when you get the dreaded phone call. The words “Dr. Cuddy” flash across your screen in the caller ID and your heart sinks to your chest. You answer the phone, feeling nervous and a bit frustrated. You don’t think Cuddy knows it’s your birthday—just that you took some time off to relax. She’s a good boss, so she wouldn’t be calling unless she really needed something.
And need something, she does. Supposedly, a few doctors called off sick—and one of your colleagues hurt himself. The hospital is severely understaffed and she needs you to come in for the afternoon. You’d have some time to kill before you get there, and she assures you that you would be able to leave at a reasonable time.
Your friend shoots you a sympathetic look as you end the phone call. They’re not surprised when you say you’ve been called into work. They know you well enough to know that ditching or faking sick wouldn’t really be an option. You reassure them that you still have time to grab lunch, and the two of you enjoy a relaxed meal before parting ways.
As you drive home, you realize you’re cutting things a bit close. It’s already nearing the time you said you would arrive. While you don’t have to pack a lunch or anything, you still feel like you’re in a bit of a rush as you stumble through your apartment and grab your keys. It isn’t until you’re pulling into the parking lot of the hospital that you recognize the trepidation in your chest: you forgot to change clothes. You’re not wearing the typical dress shirt and slacks you’d wear underneath your doctor’s coat. Fuck.
You try not to think about it as you enter the hospital, going through your typical routine of checking in with security before heading up to your office. You almost forget about the somewhat unorthodox start to your shift, until a certain judgmental, misanthropic doctor calls your attention to it.
House looks up from his paperwork as you enter the room, a slight smirk on his lips. “Well, well, well,” he drawls. “Look who rose from the dead—” House breaks off, his eyes almost widening as you head to your desk. Your heart drops to your stomach as you recognize the scrutiny in his gaze. Damn it. You’d been enjoying your day—the last thing you need today is for him to criticize your outfit.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” you huff.
House doesn’t laugh. He does cross his arms over his chest and spin in his chair to face you, leveling you with a skeptical look.
You wait for him to say something.
…But he isn’t saying anything. He’s just staring.
Officially uncomfortable, you try to pretend you haven’t noticed and instead start rifling through your backpack. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for, at this point: your keys? A snack? An escape from this stilted conversation? There’s only so much time you can spend searching for something intangible, and you eventually just sigh and close your bag. You toss it to the floor with a bit more disregard than you should, feeling a bit unnerved by House’s scrutiny.
“What?” you eventually ask your colleague. House just blinks, almost as if thrown from a trance. You can practically feel his judgment, as he takes in your outfit. You’ve never really deviated from the dress code before, so you suppose you can understand House’s suspicion. You’re wearing an oversized shirt tucked into black jeans, cuffed at the ankles to show off your platform boots. Your chain keeps escaping the confines of your shirt and sneaking to rest on top of it. Sure, it’s not necessarily a business casual outfit—but you were called in on your birthday, damn it. You have a right to be unprepared.
“You look like you drowned in an ink well,” House finally says. It almost seems like it took him a few moments to come up with something to say. That’s unusual for him—he always has something to say. Then you frown, not quite understanding the remark. He motions to your exposed forearms and you understand: he’s referring to your tattoos. Now that you think about it, you’re not sure if anyone here even knows about them. You’re always wearing long sleeves to cover them up.
“Thanks,” you remember to say dryly. There’s nothing you can do about your tattoos at the moment, save for throwing your doctor’s coat on to cover them. And you’re feeling almost defensive for some reason, so you just cross your arms over your chest and continue speaking. “Cuddy might have an aneurysm, but it’s fine.”
“She won’t care,” House responds, his eyes finding your arms, then meeting your gaze and falling away. Is he trying to reassure you? What is happening today?!
“She better not,” you huff impatiently, feeling restless under his attention. House isn’t usually so focused—at least, not on people he’s speaking to. He’s more likely to keep his eyes on his paperwork, maybe making a nonchalant gesture with a hand if absolutely necessary. You sigh. “I wasn’t supposed to be here today,” you mutter to yourself. House hears this remark, because of course he does.
“And what makes today so significant?” he says dryly. To the uninformed ear, he would sound genuinely disinterested. But you can read through the lines. House is at least mildly curious, even if he pretends not to be.
“Um… nothing,” you say weakly.
“It’s your birthday,” he realizes aloud. Damn it all. Of course he figured it out, without you even having to say anything. You suppose the signs are there: you planned ahead for this vacation day, so it couldn’t have been a sick day. You’re here, which means you weren’t out of the state or anything. You suppose it isn’t an entirely irrational guess to make, but you were hoping no one would know. You don’t really want any special attention, aside from a fleeting “Happy birthday!” spoken in passing.
“Tell anyone and I’ll kill you,” you threaten House. The thought of a birthday party or any sort of celebration makes you want to melt into a puddle on the ground. You don’t want it to be a spectacle—you just wanted to have a break from work. Of course, that didn’t happen.
“You showed up on your birthday,” House states matter-of-factly, completely ignoring your threat. “Noble. And stupid. Do you have a martyr complex or something?”
“Yeah, I know it’s stupid,” you respond. It’s getting difficult for you to keep your cool here. House has always been particularly good at getting on your nerves, but today is different. You’re already frustrated with the situation, and he isn’t helping. “Not in the mood today,” you warn him through gritted teeth. You’re close to snapping already.
House is just silent.
“Sorry, just—” you then say helplessly. Your gaze wanders the room. You don’t want to look at House right now, for some reason. The pressure of eye contact, of accountability, feels like too much. Besides, you know that if you lock eyes with him, he’ll see right through you. “I don’t really want to be here.” You frown.
“Fake sick,” he shrugs.
“I’m not good at pretending,” you sigh. “And besides, I’d feel bad. I didn’t really have grand plans for today anyway. And, y’know, helping people and all that jazz.”
House doesn’t respond, although you don’t expect him to. You’re busy attempting to salvage this outfit. You eventually decide you don’t care and just settle with throwing your coat over your shirt, your ID badge clipped to the front pocket of your jeans.
“Gotta go,” you say, raising your eyebrows pointedly. “See you.”
You’re too preoccupied to notice the way House’s eyes follow you on the way out.
For the first thirty minutes or so, you hate your life. It’s difficult to keep calm when you’re so frustrated with yourself. You didn’t want to work, so why did you even come? Yes, you would’ve been thinking about it the rest of the day if you didn’t show… But still. You’re not the only doctor in the building—someone else could have filled in.
You sigh and knock on the door of the next patient’s room, filing your thoughts to the back of your mind. You don’t have the luxury to second-guess your decisions at the moment. Instead, you throw yourself into your work and try to forget the exact turn of events that led you here.
This strategy, while simple, does seem to be doing the trick. You feel like you’re breathing a bit easier as you finish speaking with your patient, allowing them to ask any final questions before departing. The trip back to your office is quick as you grow distracted by random thoughts.
“Hey,” a familiar voice greets you. You look up from the slightly messy pile of paperwork on your desk, only to find Dr. Wilson standing in the doorway.
“Oh, hi, Wilson,” you remark. Before you can even attempt to speak again, he’s walking up to your desk and placing coffee in front of you. You blink down at the drink, looking at the label. It’s… exactly as you like it. You can’t quite hide your surprise well enough, judging from the patient but amused smile on Wilson’s face.
“House gets the credit for knowing your order,” Wilson admits. “Happy birthday.”
You can’t help but smile. “Thanks,” you respond, taking a sip and speaking with him for a few more minutes.
When Wilson leaves, you look down at your drink with curiosity. You don’t even remember ever telling House your coffee order. You suppose he’s just perceptive with those kinds of things. And, of course, if Wilson knows it’s your birthday… that means House told him. Which, in all honesty, only confuses you more. From your prior conversation, you expected—and secretly hoped—that it would slip House’s mind. He’s not the celebratory type, after all. So the fact that he both deemed it important enough to remember… and then told Wilson that it’s your birthday? Well, your thoughts are certainly spiraling now.
Of course, you aren’t given much time to deduce House’s exact motivations. When you leave your office, new coffee in hand, you soon find Dr. Chase at your side.
“Hey, man,” he says casually, looping an arm around your shoulders.
“Hey, Chase,” you respond.
Chase hums. Then he stops for a second, regarding your outfit with amusement. Even with the doctor’s coat covering your shirt, your cuffed jeans and platform boots are very much visible. “Are you cosplaying as an MCR doctor or something?” he jokes.
You huff in amusement. “No, I just got called in last minute,” you answer.
“Damn,” he says, inhaling through his teeth in evident sympathy. “Been there, done that.”
There’s a moment of silence as you continue to walk down the hall, your free hand stuffed in your pocket and Chase’s arm on your shoulder. He pays you a sidelong glance. “You know, a little birdie told me it’s your birthday.”
A little birdie. You just know House would have several objections to that phrasing. And he would probably deny his involvement. “Oh?” you hum anyway, pretending as if you don’t know exactly who got the word around.
“Yeah,” Chase responds. He considers you for a moment. “You didn’t have to come in, you know. Could’ve stayed home.”
“I know,” you recognize, “but then I would’ve felt bad about it.”
He clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “You could’ve been selfish, dude. It’s your birthday.” He nudges your shoulder in a friendly gesture.
You don’t know what to say to that rather well-constructed argument, so you both just head down the hall. As you’re about to turn the corner, Chase’s arm slips from your shoulders and he spins to face you.
“Oh, and since it’s your birthday, I have a gift,” he says, his voice sounding a bit too conspiratorial for your liking. You can hardly react before Chase is handing you a decent stack of paperwork. You were a bit too preoccupied to notice that he was holding it from the beginning.
“Seriously, Chase—?” you sputter disbelievingly, staring at the stack in your hand.
“I mean, I can still sing, if you’re interested…” he trails off with a wicked grin.
“No,” you say quickly. Absolutely not. Despite the somewhat unpredictable turn of events today, you still have some pride left. Just a little bit of dignity. Besides, that joking smirk on his face promises nothing good. “I’ll take the paperwork,” you huff, tucking the stack under your arm.
“Thanks, bud.” He claps a hand on your shoulder before turning to walk away. You just shake your head in exasperation.
When you return to your desk for a quick water break an hour later, you’re surprised to find a card sitting on your desk with your name written across the envelope. There’s no other name on the envelope, and you glance around the space skeptically. Hopefully whoever wrote this left their name inside.
It doesn’t take long for you to convince yourself to open the card. There’s a doodled illustration of a mixtape on the front, accompanying a pre-written message on the inside: Happy birthday to someone old enough to know what a mixtape is.
Then, there’s House’s ever-familiar scrawl written in blue ink near the bottom:
You don’t know what a mixtape is, do you?
– H
There’s no official birthday message, but you’re fighting off a smile regardless. You stare down at that card for way longer than you should, until a question is rising to the front of your mind: how in the hell did House get you a card so fast? The guy never leaves the building for lunch. Not to mention, you just spoke a mere few hours ago. Does he just have a whole stock of shitty birthday cards in his desk for these types of situations?
…That does sound like House, actually.
You slip the card into your desk drawer carefully, returning to your work with renewed vigor.
The rest of the day passes quickly. It feels like your shift is completed in the blink of an eye. Of course, when Cuddy learns that it’s your birthday, she’s quick to persuade you to go home. Her efforts are somewhat futile, of course, because you’re too stubborn to quit now that you’re here. Besides, you only have about an hour of your shift left.
Your boss seems moments away from grabbing you by the scruff of the neck and dragging you out of the building when there’s a familiar voice admonishing her.
“Don’t bother,” House says to Cuddy, nodding at you as he approaches both of you. “He won’t budge.”
“Because you’re the expert on him,” Cuddy responds, raising an eyebrow at him pointedly. There’s a hidden implication in that statement.
“No,” House scoffs, almost defensive. “I’m just observant and perceptive.”
Cuddy just raises her eyebrows at him. House glares at her. They almost seem to have a silent conversation amongst themselves. You kind of hover there awkwardly, before eventually deciding that you’re not needed for this conversation.
“I’ll finish up,” you announce, somewhat desperate to get rid of the tension. “Just have one more patient anyways.”
House and Cuddy both look over at you, almost as if they’d forgotten you were standing there.
“All right,” Cuddy says with a sigh. “But if I catch you here even a second past 5 p.m….”
“Yeah, yeah, imminent death and all that,” House interrupts with a roll of his eyes, shoving his free hand in his pocket.
You bid the two of them goodbye, heading to the room around the corner and greeting your next patient.
House watches you leave.
And Cuddy watches House.
“So,” she starts slowly.
“Don’t,” he warns her.
“You can just tell him,” Cuddy remarks, ignoring his objections as always.
“Tell him what, exactly?” House responds. “There is nothing to tell.”
Cuddy smiles. “Sure,” she says, a knowing gleam in her eyes. House lets out an impatient noise and turns his back to walk away, trying to ignore the strange feeling that he somehow lost control of that conversation.
Finally, finally, finally: it’s 5 p.m. Or, 5:04 p.m., more accurately. You’re feeling somewhat relieved, happy that you’ve fulfilled your responsibilities for your day. And, hell, you’ve gone above and beyond. You didn’t really have to show up at all. But you like your job, and you enjoy helping people. Besides, you still have plenty of time to grab dinner with the people most important to you.
You enter your office, only to be greeted with a disapproving click of the tongue. House is sitting at his desk, already looking at you as if he was watching the door and waiting for you to arrive. You immediately rid yourself of the thought, instead shrugging your doctor’s coat off and taking a deep breath. You’re a bit tired, but it’s more of a satisfying weariness—one that reminds you of the work you’ve done and the lives you’ve touched.
You almost forget House is sitting there, until he’s breaking through the comfortable silence again. “Time is ticking,” he says with a slight smirk, tapping his watch pointedly. You blink and look over at the clock on the wall. It’s 5:07 p.m.
“Relax, I’ll be out of your sight soon enough,” you joke good-naturedly, tidying up your desk quickly and draping your coat over the back of your chair. You fumble for your keys in the pocket of your jeans, grab your phone and throw your backpack over your shoulder. “Thanks for the card, by the way.”
There’s that damn silence again. It had been pleasant, almost companionable; now, it’s tense and uncomfortable. At least, that’s how you see it. House is still staring. You’re growing more self-conscious the longer he looks. When the quiet is broken again, you nearly flinch in your distractedness.
“You look nice.” It’s spoken bluntly, without inflection.
For a few moments, you just stare at your colleague and process that remark. It takes you some reflection to realize you haven’t misheard, that House just complimented you. “Oh,” you blink in complete surprise. “Um, thanks.”
“It’s not a compliment,” House clarifies. His eyes find yours, holding you there for a moment, before his focus moves to the wall behind you. “Just a fact.”
“...Right,” you say, slightly unconvinced. He can justify it however he wants. The truth of the matter is that he uttered the words. And House only says things he means. He has never been one for pretense. “Well, thank you anyway.”
You both know what he meant. The recognition hangs in the air, lingering in the space between you. “Shut up,” House then scoffs, almost seeming defensive.
You just smile. “See you,” you say with a nod, your fingers jittering along the jagged surface of your keys.
House sends you a mock-salute, returning to his paperwork.
(Of course, when you turn your back, he’s looking at you again. But you will never know this, and House will deny it vehemently all the same.)