Gregory notices you before he wants to and that’s the irritating part.

You’re standing on his floor, under his flickering fluorescent lights, holding a chart like it personally offended you... and smiling. Not a smug smile, not a condescending one, but the kind of bright, open expression that makes people trust you with their secrets and their organs.

House hates that smile on principle: sunshine has no place in diagnostics; it obscures shadows, and shadows are where the truth hides.

He leans heavier on his cane, watches from a distance as fellows subtly orbit you like moths around a very competent, very cheerful flame. He catches fragments of conversation—efficient, precise, warm. No wasted words, no ego on display and that’s worse. Genius he can tolerate; quiet genius wrapped in optimism feels like a personal attack. House’s mouth twists, not quite a scowl, not quite a grin. A challenge, then.

He limps closer, timing his approach like a predator with a limp and a doctorate. He doesn’t interrupt right away but he listens, he always listens. You talk about differential diagnoses like they’re gifts waiting to be unwrapped, not puzzles meant to be beaten into submission.

There’s curiosity there, not contempt. Hope, even. It makes something sharp and uncomfortable shift under House’s ribs. He files the feeling away under irrelevant, which is where he puts everything that scares him.

Up close, the contrast is worse. You don’t flinch when you notice him; no defensive posturing, no awe, no irritation—just interest. A genuine interest. House hates genuine interest almost as much as he hates being understood. He circles slightly, cane tapping once against the floor, eyes scanning for flaws. There are always flaws, he just hasn’t found the right one yet.

He watches you think. That, more than anything, is what hooks him: the speed, the sharp turns, the way conclusions land softly instead of slamming down. Different methodology but same results. His results. The realization sinks its teeth in, and suddenly this isn’t about territory anymore, it’s about reflection. About seeing his own brilliance refracted through warmth and patience and an almost obnoxious belief that people are worth saving as people.

House feels the familiar itch of irritation bloom, followed immediately by something dangerously close to fascination. He straightens, squares himself like he’s stepping into a sparring ring instead of a hospital corridor. He wants to provoke you, he wants to impress you and he wants to wipe that infuriating light from your expression just to see if it comes back brighter.

He stops in front of you, close enough to invade your space, close enough to make this impossible to ignore. His gaze locks onto yours; sharp, assessing, alive. The corner of his mouth lifts, and just like that, the game starts.

“Let me guess, you solve cases with optimism and teamwork and a belief in the basic goodness of humanity.” He taps the cane once, eyes glittering. “Adorable, really.”

He taps his cane once, eyes flicking over you with sharp interest. “So here’s the question: are you actually brilliant, or is it just to show-off your personality?”