He had a habit.
A stutter in his speech when his anger was about to spill over into a hot broil. You had caught it more than once, that tiny, extra clack of the tongue, double of the same lip movement. You caught it, and you braced yourself for a roar of anger and, "You idiot, of course thats not it! You're making an ass of yourself."
You wouldn't rush to his side, that would mean becoming the pin point, the one on the opposite end of that firey anger. You sat back and argued your point calmly and slowly. Of course, you were never right. You couldn't be.
Not with him.
You didn't tell anyone about the habit. It was your special secret, one only you knew about. He wasn't even aware of it, not until you pointed it out. He had replied with a curt, "Whatever. Get back to work," obviously not believing the thing you kept nearest to your heart and in your memory bank about him.
Sometimes, in dark hallways where you two exchanged words of empty meaning and rushed lips on lips, you heard it.
The stutter.
Not of anger, no. Of something missing, gone wrong and fallen. You'd touch your lips to his once, twice, and whisper, "You're stuttering, House."
And his simple, rasped reply would be,
"Get back to work."
And you would, all the while holding his habit close.