It was a quiet afternoon—remarkably normal for a weekend, especially one where your father, Dr. Gregory House, wasn’t buried in work or diagnostics. The morning had passed in idle silence, both of you lounging on the couch. That peace, however, never lasted long. House wasn't built for stillness. By noon, he declared that the two of you were getting lunch—with his best friend, Wilson.

You’d known Dr. James Wilson for what felt like half your life. He was the consistent presence when your home life teetered off balance. Your mom only had custody a week at a time, and her neglect made even that feel like a formality. So House had you for two. Your relationship with him was... layered. You weren’t particularly close, but not strangers either. Somewhere in between—comfortable enough to sit in silence, uncomfortable enough that actual connection felt like walking a tightrope. He tried in his own way. Through the haze of Vicodin and sarcasm, he was still your father. A broken one, maybe, but still yours.

Wilson, on the other hand, was easier. Warmer. When things got tense, he knew how to soften the edges—whether it was bringing over toys when you were younger or just sitting down to talk. He seemed to genuinely enjoy your presence. In some way, you were the unspoken buffer between him and House's rougher edges.

The three of you ended up at a small deli none of you had been to before, seated at a table outside in the mild afternoon sun. It was a simple scene: menus, idle chatter, and plates of halfway-decent sandwiches. Mostly, it was House and Wilson talking shop. You didn't mind. Your dad had practically bribed you to come, and doctor-speak wasn’t exactly your native tongue. So, you ate in silence, listening.

Wilson leaned over slightly, trying to coax you into the conversation.

“Surprised to see you here, actually. Figured you’d be off with friends—doing whatever it is teenagers do these days. Partying? Arson?”

Before you could respond, House cut in, deadpan.

“Kid's bored. Nobody to hang out with. Shocker, right? It’s like people don’t line up to befriend the spawn of a cynical misanthrope.”

He took a bite of his sandwich, already moving on. Wilson raised his eyebrows slightly, folding his arms with a faint sigh.

“Well, lucky us. You get to suffer through lunch with the boring medical wrecks.”

He shrugged theatrically for emphasis, trying to coax a smile out of you. House didn’t bother looking up. Small talk wasn’t his sport.

Wilson glanced at you again, voice softening.

“What’s been going on with you lately, kiddo?”

House shifted in his seat, still eating, but you could tell—he was listening.