Chapter Text
House and Wilson are at some hole-in-the-wall pizza place, waiting in line when House first notices the kid. Well, Wilson is waiting in line—House is comfortably seated at one of the worn-down tables, his cane tapping out a lazy rhythm against the surface.
He doesn’t think much of the boy at first.
“If I get you pepperoni and me chicken, will you actually eat your own, or are you just going to steal mine?” Wilson calls over his shoulder. He doesn’t even give House a chance to respond—not that House was going to, because it’s a stupid question. Instead, Wilson holds up a hand, his expression teetering somewhere between fond exasperation and just plain exasperated, though if you asked him, he’d insist it was the latter.
“Don’t bother answering that. I know you’ll take mine.”
House beams at him—the forced, deliberately fake grin that Wilson despises, the one House pulls out purely to get under his skin. He’s been using it to torment Wilson for far longer than the six years they’ve actually been together. Wilson, unimpressed, flips him off. It’s their usual routine.
House is fishing his Vicodin bottle out of his pocket when he notices the kid again. Fourteen or fifteen at most. He’s not exactly scrawny, but he’s not particularly built either—giving off the impression that he hasn’t had a proper meal in days. He’s probably an average height for his age, or at least what House assumes is average, which means he stands roughly half a foot shorter than him. Blonde hair falls over his forehead in an effortlessly tousled way, and his blue eyes are just a little too guarded for a face that young. House figures the boy is probably annoyingly popular with kids his age. He’s got that whole surfer-boy look going for him.
He’s wearing a backpack, one that’s still in good condition—nice, but a bit dirty, and House doubts it’s full of schoolbooks. His clothes are branded, expensive, but crumpled, as if they haven’t seen a washer in weeks. House immediately categorises him as a pretty-boy rich kid who’s likely run away from home because Mommy and Daddy are on his case about his grades. It’s not his problem.
But what is his problem—what holds his attention—is the way the kid moves behind Wilson in line.
House knows Wilson keeps his wallet in his right-hand coat pocket. He always has, for as long as House has known him.
And the kid is inching closer. Not touching, not even close enough for Wilson to notice, but then his hand starts creeping forward, fingers extending towards Wilson’s pocket.
House knows exactly what’s about to happen. And he lets it.
He watches as the kid slips the wallet out, easy as breathing, and House is already looking forward to mocking Wilson for this later. But still, he waits. Waits until the wallet is fully in the kid’s grasp before he lifts his cane and brings it down in a sharp, precise smack against the boy’s forearm. Not hard enough to break anything, not even enough to leave a bruise—just enough to startle.
The kid jerks in surprise, his grip loosening. The wallet slips from his fingers, landing with a dull thud on the floor. Exactly what House intended.
Wide, panicked blue eyes snap up to meet his, lips parting in shock. He’s about to bolt, but House is already rising to his feet, towering over him.
“House, what the hell is wrong with you?” Wilson snaps. He hasn’t seen what happened, just House whacking a teenager with his cane. Typical.
Wilson immediately turns to the boy, concern etched into his features. “Are you alright, kid?”
The boy doesn’t even glance at Wilson. His panicked blue eyes remain locked on House, wide and wary, like a trapped animal waiting for the worst.
House tilts his head, studying him properly now that he’s closer. The boy hasn’t eaten in days—House can see it in the sharpness of his cheekbones, not in the way models have them, but in the way people do when their body is running on empty. There’s a fading bruise on his cheek, just barely visible under the dim lighting.
“Pick up the wallet,” House drawls, tapping his cane against the floor.
The boy hesitates, staring at him for a few seconds before ducking down to snatch up the wallet. His grip tightens around it, and House notices the dirt wedged beneath his fingernails. Another detail to file away.
“Is that…” Wilson starts, patting at his coat pockets, his eyes narrowing as they land on the kid.
House scoffs. “Yes, Detective, that’s your wallet. Little Romeo here was about to make a run for it.”
The kid looks between them, muscles tensing, and House recognizes the shift immediately. He’s going to run. He’s weighing his odds, calculating whether he can make it out of here before House or Wilson reacts. The kid’s either got some guts or he’s just incredibly stupid.
House reaches out, gripping the boy’s shoulder before he can bolt. “Give Wilson his wallet back, and we won’t call the cops. And they won’t call Mommy and Daddy.”
That does it. The kid instantly shoves the wallet at Wilson. Wilson takes it without rush, barely acknowledging it, his focus still on the boy. He seems to have come to the same conclusion as House—this boy isn’t a threat. He’s too thin, not particularly tall, and clearly terrified.
House pulls out his phone, lazily typing in 9-1-1 . He presses the second 1 , just to watch the kid’s reaction. He wasn’t actually going to call, but the panic in the boy’s expression is worth the bluff. His whole face crumples, his breathing hitching like he’s on the verge of tears, and House takes great satisfaction in it.
“You said you wouldn’t call the cops!”
And that’s interesting.
Because the kid has an accent. And it’s not an American one.
Australian.
Now this just got a hell of a lot more interesting. This kid isn’t just any runaway—he ran across the world. As a minor . Which means whatever he’s running from isn’t just some teenage rebellion.
“Sit down,” House orders, tapping his cane against the table. It’s not a request.
The boy looks between him and Wilson, uncertain.
Wilson is already looking at House like he doesn’t want to be dragged into whatever mess this is going to become. But House knows him too well—there’s concern in his eyes. Wilson’s heart always gets in the way of his head, and it’s already happening.
House sighs and lowers himself into his chair, gesturing at the seat across from him, looking thoroughly bored. “Sit down, and I won’t call the cops. Now, what kind of pizza do you want?”
“Pepperoni,” the boy answers immediately, then looks annoyed with himself for responding at all. But he does sit down, slowly, nervously, opposite House. His hands clutch at the straps of his backpack like a lifeline.
“You heard him, Wilson. Get the kid a pepperoni.”
Wilson opens his mouth, and House already knows exactly what he’s about to say. He doesn’t even need to hear it. We should call the cops, this is a runaway minor, he has nowhere to sleep. It’s classic Wilson.
House stares at him, and they have one of those silent conversations they’ve been having for years.
The kid is a minor. A runaway. But he’s Australian . Which means he probably doesn’t have a visa. Which means he’s in the country illegally. Which means if they call the cops, he’s getting shipped right back to whatever he ran away from.
Wilson sighs, defeated, then looks at the boy again. “What do you want to drink, kid?”
The boy doesn’t trust them. That much is obvious. He clutches his backpack tighter, as if they might rip it away from him. “Coca-Cola.”
Wilson nods and turns to order. The line that had been in front of him earlier has disappeared, leaving the pizza place empty except for them.
House doesn’t speak, and neither does the kid. House isn’t one for small talk, and he hates everyone that isn’t Wilson, but he especially hates teenagers.
The boy shifts in his seat like he’s still debating running. House won’t stop him if he does—it would be stupid, considering he’s about to get free food. The kid seems to realise that, because he settles slightly, though his shoulders remain tense.
Wilson returns a few minutes later, placing three slices of pizza and three cans of soda on the table. Then, after a brief pause, he goes back to the counter and comes back with another slice and a portion of fries. He shoves two slices of pepperoni and the fries in front of the boy before taking the seat beside House.
“The kid gets two slices and fries, and I only get one slice with no fries?” House moans, deliberately obnoxious.
Wilson rolls his eyes, but the kid stiffens, glancing between them like he expects one of them to snatch it all back.
“Relax, kid,” House says dryly. “No one’s taking your precious pizza.” He narrows his eyes slightly. “Since we’re feeding you, though, you can at least give us some information. Name, age, why you have an Aussie accent but you’re in New Jersey, and why the hell you thought stealing my partner’s wallet was a good idea.”
The boy’s eyes widen slightly at the word partner . He glances between House and Wilson, surprised—but not disgusted. That’s something. Most people are caught off guard when they find out he and Wilson have been together for six years.
House smirks and reaches across the table and swipes the kid’s fries.
The reaction is immediate. Chase flinches, leaning back in his chair like he’s trying to get as far away from them as possible without outright bolting.
“House, for fuck’s sake, stop it,” Wilson hisses, his tone sharp. His soft brown eyes are locked onto the kid, and they’re practically screaming sympathy. “Leave him alone and let him eat. He’s a child , and he’s obviously starving.”
“Well, we don’t know he’s a child,” House points out. “Because he won’t tell us how old he is. For all we know, he’s a 37-year-old man.”
Wilson rolls his eyes, unimpressed. House smirks, because yeah—there’s no way this kid is older than fifteen.
Wilson grabs the fries after a brief scuffle and slides them back toward the boy. “You don’t have to tell us anything. Just eat.”
The kid fidgets with the hem of his expensive-looking jacket, then with the zipper on his backpack. He still doesn’t eat, but after a long pause, he mutters, “My name’s Robert Chase. But call me Chase—everyone does. I’m fifteen. I’m from Australia. My dad abandoned us two months ago. He was a prick anyway, but my mum was just as bad, and I couldn’t stay there. So I took as much of my dad’s money as I could and left. He hasn’t checked to see if I’m home. He doesn’t care. I…I tried to take your wallet…” He glances at Wilson, guilt flashing in his expression. “I only did it because I ran out of money. I told immigration I was staying with family, but I’ve been in hotels for the past month and a half. I haven’t been able to afford one in over a week.”
He’s telling the truth. House knows that much.
Wilson is appalled . House can feel the concern radiating off him before he even speaks. “We need to call the police,” Wilson insists. “You’re a child. You can’t just be living on the streets, starving. Anything could happen to you.”
House rolls his eyes. Wilson is such a Wilson.
Predictably, Chase looks horrified and immediately starts to stand.
“We’re not calling the cops— unless you try to steal from us again. Then we will call them, and they’ll send your skinny little pretty-boy ass straight back to Australia and straight back to Daddy.” House speaks firmly, tilting his head slightly as he watches the kid flinch again. He studies the reaction, filing it away for later. “You can stay at ours tonight. There’s a spare room.”
It’s reckless, probably. They don’t know anything about this kid. He could rob them blind, he could take off with whatever valuables he could carry, or hell, he could even murder them in their sleep. But House isn’t concerned about that. He’s too fascinated by this boy—Robert Chase, a fifteen-year-old runaway, an Australian pretty boy with a guarded stare and a father he clearly wants nothing to do with.
“House, are you insane ?” Wilson hisses, his voice a harsh whisper as he tightens his grip on House’s thigh under the table. His fingers dig in hard enough that House grits his teeth. “We cannot just take in a fifteen-year-old child! There are laws! There’s child protective services! We could go to prison for this!”
House doesn’t even blink. “We’re not adopting him, Wilson. We’re just giving him somewhere to stay.” He raises an eyebrow, his tone still dry, unimpressed. “Or would you rather he sleeps on the streets, where someone could attack him? Where someone could take advantage of him? He’s a kid , Wilson. And we’re not creeps. He’ll have a roof over his head, a warm place to sleep, and a meal. That’s all.”
Wilson exhales sharply, giving House a look that says you’re going to pay for this later. Which, to be fair, is a look Wilson has given him many, many times before. House waits, watching as Wilson glances up toward the ceiling of the pizza place, letting out a long, exasperated sigh.
“Fine,” he relents, rubbing a hand over his face. “But this is temporary. We need to find a real solution for him.” He turns to Chase then, his tone gentler as he extends a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Chase. I’m Dr James Wilson, and this is my partner, Dr Greg House.”
The moment Wilson says the word doctor , Chase’s expression shifts—just slightly, but House catches it. A flicker of something unreadable crosses his face, and House immediately files it away under more things to investigate later. He doesn’t like doctors. But why?
“Nice to meet you too,” Chase mumbles eventually, hesitating before taking Wilson’s hand and giving it a quick shake.
“Well then,” House grins, leaning back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. “Let’s take our new baby boy home, shall we?”
Wilson scowls at him. Chase flushes red and immediately looks anywhere but at House.
House only grins wider and steals one of Chase’s fries.