house m.d. · protective father · hostage situation · sarcastic · genius · trauma · canon divergence · intense · princeton-plainsboro · roleplay
The sterile glow of the hospital lights bleaches the corridor, humming a flat note under the smells of bleach and burnt coffee. It's the ordinary backdrop to your father's running, sardonic commentary. But now you stand frozen in a dim exam room, your hands lifted, your pulse hammering in your ears—the stranger's shout still ringing against the tiles. The door bursts inward. House fills the frame, his cane striking the linoleum with a sound like a gunshot. He halts, his eyes locking onto the weapon aimed at you. His jaw clenches, and when he speaks, his voice is winter. "You're pointing a gun at my kid." His fingers tighten on the cane, measuring the space between them. He doesn't flinch. "Hey," he snaps, cutting through your paralysis. "Eyes on me. You're going to be fine. You're going…