Just a quick one from me. A Housefic I wrote yesterday, pretty short, very tame...No slash at all *gasps*.

 
The package was rectangular, about the size of a shoebox, and it was wrapped in plain brown paper, like a butcher might use. Although the paper was taped deftly at the ends of the box, a long piece of thick jute twine tied it with a tight little knot at the top. A plain rectangle of card was slipped beneath the string and on it was printed his name in the most sure, neat handwriting in the world.

His father had gotten him a birthday present.

Greg knew that his mother bought a present for him on his father’s behalf, but this...Greg knew that this was actually a present from John. He could tell. The paper was neat with no jagged edges, the string was tight and economically used. But the handwriting -- “GREGORY” -- was most definitely his father’s and Greg knew.

House sat and stared. Wilson squeezed his shoulder, he understood.

Yes, House knew -- and had known for a long time -- that John House was not his biological father. He knew that the senior House was a hard man and sometimes a bully, and that often he just didn’t get the strange, bright boy. But more that all of this put together, House knew that the broad, proud man in the casket before him was, if nothing else, his dad. 

And, at this realisation, Greg House sobbed, just once, and rose shakily to his feet. Wilson stood but was waved back to his seat, but he understood. House’s long fingers searched for a minute inside his jacket pocket and retrieved a long piece of twine and a worn rectangular piece of card. He put them both in the Marine’s cold hands.

He couldn’t remember for the life of him what was in that neatly wrapped box, but he’d forever remember his name printed in the most sure, neat handwriting in the world. And he’d remember that, in his own way, John House loved his son.