Hi everyone! It has been quite some time... Life got in the way of writing (again). But I have this thing, that I wrote a few months ago, and now felt like the right time to share it.

It's set in season 7. I hope you'll like it. Please don't hesitate to share your thoughts! I haven't heard from you in a long time and I miss you guys. :)

Happy holidays, and I hope to see you again soon!

81. I want you to have this.

House couldn't sleep.

There was nothing unusual in that. It was one of the many consequences of chronic pain. He'd given up any attempts to lull himself to sleep long ago: driving, reading, or watching TV in another room… the pain was relentless, his brain not that easily fooled.

If he had a case, it saved him from boredom at least. But he wasn't as lucky tonight.

He looked at Cuddy, sound asleep beside him.

At the beginning, she would feel guilty (because of course she would) about sleeping when he couldn't. Thus, she'd spent a couple nights awake with him; the first one had been miserable: he had had to carry the weight of her guilt about his sleeplessness, his infarction, his mangled leg, and she had fallen asleep on the couch at three in the morning anyway. The second night, she'd managed to stay up the entire night, but had been completely useless at work the following day.

So he'd listened to Wilson's advice for once, and talked to her about it. It hadn't been an easy conversation, but they had reached a consortium: she agreed to go to sleep if he promised to wake her up if he needed anything.

So, tonight: no case, Cuddy asleep. He was bored.

Beyond Cuddy, he looked at the picture frames on her nightstand. He'd only caught a glimpse of the photos in her house, not wanting to be busted looking at them – he was far too reserved for that.

But he had been curious. He only had a handful of personal photos and never wanted to look at them, much less put them on display. Those pictures didn't come from particularly happy times in his life, and he didn't have any from his ancestors, whom he didn't know: his parents hadn't been talkative about them.

Cuddy having all of that was… exotic, and definitely intriguing.

So he massaged his leg and took an extra ibuprofen before getting up and going on a tour of her house.

There were pictures in virtually every room, from the most recent pictures of her daughter on the fridge that she'd printed from her phone, to the sepia, invaluable family photos in the living room. He looked at pictures of her at various stages of her life – tiny Cuddy holding baby Julia, a class photo from fifth grade, a family picture of her and her sister wearing butt-ugly sweaters flanked by their parents and the dog, a photo of her graduating med school, a photo of her holding Rachel at her Simchat Bat, a group picture taken a few Thanksgivings ago. Photos of her parents, especially her dad, her nieces and nephews, a black and white picture of a woman in her wedding dress who was most likely one of her grandmothers (Arlene's mother, he bet). A frame containing small pictures of ancestors she hadn't met – he deduced as many things as he could about them, and found Ernest Cuddy in a matter of seconds.

He remembered the pictures in her office at work. Those he had been able to peruse in her absence, especially the picture of her and the chimp that he'd defaced and later felt bad about (much to his surprise), pictures of her trips across the globe. She had saved pictures of her achievements for her office and pictures of her family for her home.

He realised that the latest family picture was Rachel's Simchat Bat, five years ago. If Lucas or her family had taken pictures of them together since, she hadn't displayed them, or hadn't had them printed at all. Considering her family didn't visit much… it was possible there weren't any pictures of her.

He felt bad for her. She was happy, she had a child she'd so desperately wanted, things were going well with him, and he might even say he was happy, too – proven by the fact that his sleepless nights were getting rare. She should have memories of those happy times, put them up on her shelves, or on the fridge, hell, even in her office. And he wanted some, too. Maybe there could be one on his nightstand.

A couple weeks later, after tucking Rachel in bed, he handed her an envelope as she was sitting on the couch with a book and a glass of wine.

"I want you to have this."

"What's this?" she asked as she took it, frowning as she felt the weight of photographs. "Is it blackmail material you have on someone? Not Hourani again, House," she pleaded.

She opened the envelope while he sat beside her, went silent as she discovered them. He had taken pictures of her when she hadn't been suspecting: pictures of her playing with Rachel at home or at the park, of her sleeping in the crook of his arm while he made a goofy face at the camera, of her helping out in the clinic, of her sitting behind her desk and getting shit done.

Her eyes were wet when she looked up at him.

"Oh, no."

"I never had any pictures of you and I," she explained. "Of you, period. After you left Michigan, I only had my memories. I was terrified I'd forget the details of your face."

He was touched beyond words. He knew exactly what she felt. Taking a picture of her asleep had been easy. Taking one of them together would be a first, in over twenty years. It would be special.

"I'm not going anywhere," was the only thing he thought to say.

"I know," she said softly, understanding the meaning behind his words. "I want a picture with you anyway."

"We'll take one."

She grinned and climbed on his lap, kissing him gently. "Thank you for those, House," she whispered, resting her forehead against his.

He rubbed her back.

"Can you have a couple more photos printed?" she asked after a minute. "I have a photo of you in your office on my phone. And one of you playing with Rachel."

He smiled. "Of course. And we need pictures with the three of us."

"Yes. We do."