Chapter Text
The unfortunate truth of Gregory House is, once challenged, to back down from said challenge is simply unacceptable.
Yes, there are the occasional backsteps. House, despite what the public reviews on various doctor rating websites and his very heavy HR complaint file both say, is actually capable of recognizing when he’s painted himself into a corner. One can’t pride themselves on their cool and logical train of thought without acknowledging that everyone is capable of making mistakes.
House just makes less mistakes than other people.
Which does, in turn, make acknowledging those mistakes harder than it would be for your average failure ridden moron. Walking back statements made in confidence is for idiots who bite off more than they can chew. Only a total preschool reject of an adult would make promises they can’t actually keep due to their own ineptitude.
Case in point, the reasoning behind House’s clenched jaw faux friendly smile and unusually tidy clothes whilst some uppity government stooge drones on and on about the joys of parenthood.
But like all perfect diagnostic moments, one must start at the first symptom to present.
—Six months earlier—
“House, this really isn’t a big deal.”
Seven words had never before dealt such irritation.
“Oh sure, not a big deal. So you think it’s okay to deprive children of the chance to meet an expert in the medical field? You want the children of the future to be a bunch of mindlessly stunted puppets?” House snarked. Reaching across the cafeteria table, he snatched a messy handful of fries off Wilson’s plate and shoved them into his mouth. Few things irritated Wilson quite like a lack of table manners, despite his (incorrect) claims of not being a total Miss Priss hard ass.
Only fair for Wilson to suffer irritation alongside House. Misery shared is misery halved or whatever.
Eyes narrowed in exasperation, Wilson took an almost pissy bite of his sandwich. “Oh yes, I love stunting child development. That’s why I went into oncology. How else was I going to get a license to inject kids with poison?” He replied, tone dry enough to almost make up for how disgustingly soggy the cafeteria fries were. House hadn’t even paid for them and he was affronted. Why did hospital food always suck? You’d expect hospital food to be the best food in the world from at least a health perspective.
‘Note to self; annoy Cuddy about hospital food.’
“But to circle back,” Wilson continued, rudely interrupting House’s plans to schedule in an extra 10 minutes to pull Cuddy’s pigtails, “They’re fine with a doctor speaking at the school’s Career Day. It isn’t like they’re burning medical texts to prevent enlightenment. They just don’t want you to speak, and frankly, I can understand why. You aren’t exactly… child friendly.”
Well.
Now this was personal.
“Child friendly is a gimmick.” House scoffed and leaned back in his seat, tapping his cane thoughtfully. “It’s just lying about reality. No Timmy, mommy isn’t screwing the mailman. No Timmy, this isn’t booze it’s just grown up juice. No Timmy, of course you can do anything you want to when you grow up. I’m an excellent liar. Therefore, I’m the epitome of child friendly. I just don’t put in the effort.”
At least half a dozen expressions flitted across Wilson’s face before he finally landed on his usual look of somewhere between indulgence and constipation. “House. You couldn’t last more than ten minutes with a child before saying something completely unacceptable. You thrive on being controversial, it’s your whole shtick. You, House, are the antithesis of child friendly.”
Well. Now that was simply too good a challenge to ignore.
“Not only could I last ten minutes without offending some PTA mother,” House shot back, throwing a fry at Wilson and noting gleefully that it left a grease stain on his collar just out of Wilson’s peripheral vision. A good prank is the kind you don’t need to put in any effort for. “I bet I could have people begging me to take their kids.”
“Sure, Peter Pan.”
—Now—
That’s the thing. It was all purely Wilson’s fault. Not that Wilson knew House had backed himself into the cage of fostering. The plan had just been to get registered as a foster parent and then throw the paperwork in Wilson’s smug little oncologist face.
Except, like how most problems started, House was simply too good at lying and too awful at walking those lies back.
Mostly though, it was the kid’s fault.
Sullen brown eyes stared up at House from the file the social worker had handed over. Kid somehow had avoided the usual pitfalls that befell your average 16 year old. Only a bit of a baby face, no noticeable acne, well kept hair and stylish clothes. Lots of family money probably. Which begs the question: how does a rich Aussie brat end up in foster care?
“...Absconded his parental rights after Robert’s mother died. Poor thing. He’s been bouncing around to different homes for the last year and a half and he’s made trouble for himself at each of them.” The social worker’s voice droned on. Hint of exhaustion wrapped around the kid’s name. Kid clearly is a long term problem. Must have been too much for the other foster homes and now they’re just letting him ping pong around until he’s 18 and can get the boot.
16 year old spoiled teen with mommy and daddy issues?
Pass.
“His father, Dr. Chase, has been kind enough to offer up a trust fund at least. Once he hits 18 he’ll be able to take care of himself, so long as he doesn’t get in any serious trouble. It’s just a matter of getting Robert to 18 without him ending up in hot water.”
…Reconsider.
“So, if…?” House paused to look down at the file as if in thought. Right. Robert. Dumb name. “Robert manages to stay out of trouble until he’s an adult, he’ll get a nice little paycheck? Like, what? Few thousand dollars?” Tsking, House shook his head in mock sorrow. “I imagine it would take more than that to get someone who’s been through so much settled into adulthood. Imagine the therapy bills.”
The social worker (Shelley? Sam? Something.) snorted and shook her head. “It would be unprofessional of me to discuss the sum properly but…” Leaning forward, she gave House a conspiratorial look. “He will certainly be more than comfortable once he’s 18. He just needs a lot of guidance.”
Well. More than comfortable?
Wouldn’t mind a slice of that pie.
“I’d be… honored to take… R…Robert in.” House sighed, only a little over dramatically. Eugh. Robert. Last names only in this foster house. “It’s been so lonely around here. Having kids running in the hallway, drawing on the walls, getting their sticky fingers on everything sounds like heaven. When can I get the little guy in here?”