Chapter Text
“Why are there cowboy boots in my office?”
Dr. Gregory House leaned against the doorframe of Diagnostics, balancing his cane on one hand, Vicodin bottle in the other, the pills inside rattling like a tiny applause. The boots sat—unapologetically—atop the pristine glass coffee table next to an open laptop, a worn leather-bound notebook, and a Texas A&M medical school mug half-full of black coffee.
Dr. Remy Hadley—Thirteen—glanced up from her chart review. “New guy.”
Chase didn’t even look up. “His name’s Kit Walker. He’s from Texas.”
Foreman, sitting with his tablet, interjected flatly, “He’s a final-year med student finishing an accelerated fellowship. Taub’s gone. Again. You’d know this if you read your email.”
House limped further into the room, expression unreadable. “Email is for people who believe HR has souls. So—Walker, huh? Sounds like a stage name. Tell me he sings country ballads and performs gallbladder surgeries simultaneously.”
“Maybe,” came a calm voice from behind.
House turned just as Kit Walker entered the room, tucking a pen behind his ear. He was tall—not that it mattered—fit in a way that could’ve gone unnoticed if not for the quiet confidence in how he moved. He wore his white coat with casual efficiency. His smile, however, was the only thing unguarded: easy, genuine, and polite. It irritated House immediately.
“You must be Dr. House,” Kit said with a Texas drawl just subtle enough to sound unassuming. “Heard a lot about you.”
“Let me guess. I’m a genius, a pain in the ass, and the reason three interns cry themselves to sleep.”
Kit shrugged. “They said ‘legendary,’ but didn’t get into specifics.”
“Don’t trust praise from anyone who drinks soy lattes and uses emoticons.”
“I drink black, and I write in cursive,” Kit said, stepping past him to reclaim his mug.
House narrowed his eyes, more intrigued than he cared to admit. “So what do you want, cowboy? Validation? A gold star?”
“I want to learn. Figure I’ll get some bruises along the way.”
Chase finally looked up, smirking. “He’s not wrong.”
Foreman muttered, “Don’t encourage House. He’ll throw you into a differential with three symptoms and a patient who lies for a living.”
House grinned like a cat. “Let’s see if Walker here can lasso some logic.”
—
The patient was a 35-year-old woman with temporary blindness, severe joint pain, and spontaneous bruising. No trauma. No known autoimmune disorder. Every standard test had come up clean.
They hit the whiteboard hard, markers squeaking and tempers flaring.
Chase thought it was lupus. Thirteen suspected vasculitis. Foreman kept going back to some obscure clotting disorder. Kit, for the most part, watched. Listened. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t to impress.
“You all ruled out paraneoplastic syndrome?” he asked, voice low, thoughtful.
House spun around. “Why?”
“She has a family history of ovarian cancer, but no one asked about her mother’s endocrine profile. Could be early-stage. Her vision loss might be due to paraneoplastic retinopathy.”
House stared at him a long beat, face impassive.
Then, he grunted. “Better than lupus.”
They sent the patient for more tests. House didn’t say thank you. Kit didn’t expect one.
—
Later that day, Wilson caught House standing outside the diagnostics office, cane dangling, watching through the glass as Kit helped Chase with a patient intake.
“You’re doing that thing,” Wilson said, appearing beside him.
“I do a lot of things. Be specific.”
“The watching thing. The you-find-someone-interesting-and-pretend-you-don’t-care thing.”
House scoffed, popping a Vicodin.
“He’s a med student,” Wilson added. “And also… twenty-five?”
“Twenty-six,” House said before he could stop himself.
Wilson lifted a brow. “So you have been paying attention.”
“I pay attention when people leave boots on my table.”
“Sure. And you haven’t Googled him or memorized his residency evaluations.”
House shot him a glare. “Are you here for a reason, or is your therapist out of office?”
Wilson held up a peace offering: a sandwich from the cafeteria. “I’m here to remind you you’re human. And to say: maybe don’t break this one before he’s started.”
House looked back through the glass.
Kit laughed at something Thirteen said, his face relaxed, his posture open. He radiated a calm optimism that didn’t belong in House’s cynical, storm-cloud world.
House felt something twist in his chest. Uncomfortable. Annoying. Curious.
“Don’t worry,” he said finally. “I don’t break things. I just watch them fall apart.”
Wilson didn’t respond. He just left the sandwich on the bench.
—
That night, House returned to his office. The boots were gone. In their place, a sticky note sat on the table.
“Hope the table survived. – Kit”
House stared at it. Then picked up his marker and wrote beneath it.
“Not everything here is fragile.”
He left it there, knowing Kit would see it tomorrow.
And though he’d never admit it out loud, House felt something stir. Not desire. Not yet. But a flicker.
Something slow.
⸻