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In the Big House
by Mer
As a doctor, Lisa Cuddy was used to getting phone calls at any hour of the day or night. It didn't inure her to the instinctive dread of being woken from a deep sleep by the sound of the phone. If anything, it ingrained the dread even deeper into her psyche. Phone calls in the early hours of the morning were never good news.
When her phone rang at 3:07 in the morning, Cuddy rolled towards the nightstand and picked up the receiver, already wide-awake. "Hello?"
"May I please speak to Dr. Lisa Cuddy?"
Male voice with a North Jersey accent. Not the duty nurse at the hospital, but that didn't mean it wasn't about work. "This is Lisa Cuddy." Could be maintenance - a flood, a power outage. Or security. It wasn't unheard of for a junkie to try and break into the clinic. "Can I help you?"
"My name is Sergeant Tom Wylie, Dr. Cuddy. I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, but do you know a James Wilson?"
Cuddy's breath caught in her throat. Oh, god. Wilson. A dozen scenarios flashed through her mind - a car accident, mugging, robbery. She imagined a trauma team working on him, or worse, a drawer in the morgue. "Dr. Wilson works for me. What's happened? Is he all right?"
The reply was quick, reassuring. "He's fine. Or he will be. But someone needs to come down and pick him up."
"Pick him up from where?"
"Princeton Borough Police Headquarters."
It was at that point that Cuddy decided she was actually still asleep. It was just one of those dreams where you woke up still crying, or laughing, or wondering how you were going to get the alligator out of your basement when you knew perfectly well that you didn't have a basement. She decided to play along and enjoy the dream. "Why is he there?"
The reply wasn't as quick this time. "Dr. Wilson was involved in an incident," Sergeant Wylie said cautiously. "There was a disturbance at an establishment on Nassau...."
"Wilson?" Definitely still asleep. "Wilson was in a bar fight?" She leaned over and turned on the lamp, squinting at the sudden strong light. Everything looked normal. Cuddy rubbed her eyes and tried to process the information. Something seemed to be missing. "Wait a second. Is Dr. Wilson tall, with greying brown hair, blue eyes, a cane and an attitude?" Dream or no dream, it would be just like him to pretend to be Wilson just to mess with her mind.
The pause was even longer this time. "No, but he was brought in with Dr. Wilson."
"House," Cuddy hissed. She was definitely awake. "His name is Gregory House and I have the misfortune of being his boss as well." Her mind was still playing catch up. "If he's been arrested, why isn't Wilson calling me himself? Doesn't he get a phone call?"
"Technically Dr. Wilson and Dr. House haven't been arrested. They're being held, for their own safety, until someone can take responsibility for them. Dr. Wilson gave us your name and I thought I should I call you myself. Dr. House is being difficult and Dr. Wilson is...indisposed."
That brought the worry flooding back. She had seen Wilson drunk before, but never to the point of incoherence. He always kept a degree of control, particularly when he was drinking with House. "Could I speak to Dr. House, please? And tell him if he doesn't cooperate I'm adding ten clinic hours to his schedule."
She could hear Wylie relay that message and House's predictable reply. She considered adding those ten hours anyway just to teach him a lesson, but House had a way of turning lessons into regrets. She thought she heard the sound of laughter as the phone was passed over, and wondered if the sergeant was laughing at House or at her.
"Cuddy," House drawled over the phone, managing to make the two syllables sound both dangerous and seductive. "Are you in bed? Are you wearing that lacy thing with the low-cut bodice?"
Cuddy was already changing out of her nightgown and into a tracksuit, neither of which had a low-cut bodice. "Do you want me to let you rot in jail? Because it seems like a good option right about now."
"Go ahead," House countered. "I didn't ask for your help anyway. But if you don't come down and get Wilson, he's liable to become some biker's bitch. You know how they like the pretty."
"Is he all right?"
He paused long enough before answering to truly frighten Cuddy. "Define all right."
"Damnit, House. This isn't a game. Is Wilson hurt?" She hated dealing with House when he'd been drinking. He wasn't a mean drunk, or even a maudlin drunk. He was just himself, only more.
"He's not feeling any pain right now," House evaded.
It told her what she needed to know and she stumbled around the room, receiver tucked tightly against her shoulder, while she searched for her shoes. "What about you?" she asked, hoping he was drunk enough to forget her concern later. "Are you all right?"
House snorted. "I'm way better in a fight than Wilson. He lacks my agility and sense of ruthlessness." There was an edge to his voice that told her he was more worried than he was willing to admit and less intoxicated than she'd first suspected.
"I'll be down there as soon as I can," she said, hanging up.
It took fifteen minutes to reach Police Headquarters, only because Cuddy made sure to stay exactly at the speed limit and stopped at every yellow light. She didn't want to risk being pulled over for a traffic violation and have House mock her for the next month. There was no way she was losing the upper hand.
Sergeant Wylie met her at the desk and led her through the necessary paperwork. Cuddy was used to filling out legal forms about House, but it was almost surreal to see Wilson's name in the same spots. She supposed it was inevitable. People who played with fire were bound to get burned. People who played with House were bound to get arrested.
When Wylie told her it would take at least half an hour to process the paperwork, she demanded to see her wayward department heads. He hesitated at first, but Cuddy had taken on far more difficult opponents in her day, and within minutes she was being led back to the holding cells.
She had a vague picture of what a drunk tank might look like, gleaned from cop shows and movies. She expected to see cells filled with dirty, disoriented, and dishevelled patrons.
What she didn't expect to see was House sitting on a cot against the wall with Wilson curled against him, unconscious or sleeping. Wilson's head rested on House's shoulder and one arm was flung across House's chest, fingers latched loosely to House's jacket. Even more surprising was that House had an arm around Wilson, holding him steady. It was the first time she had seen House willingly hold another person in years, but when he looked up, the chagrin at being caught didn't quite mask the affection and worry in his eyes.
"Let me in," she demanded, responding instinctively to the worry. Wylie hesitated, then unlocked the door. They had a cell almost to themselves, with only a college kid passed out in the corner for company. Obviously it was a slow night, which was probably fortunate. Cuddy hated to think what House would do with conscious cellmates. On second thought, unconscious ones were probably in more danger, so she spared a quick glance to make sure the boy was undisturbed. Satisfied that House was too occupied with Wilson to have caused any mischief, she perched on the edge of the cot. "I'm getting you out of here," she reassured House. "The paperwork's going through now."
House nodded, for once no sarcastic remarks at the ready, and shook Wilson gently. "Wake up, chief," he urged, shaking a little harder. "Cuddy's here and she'll give you ten extra clinic hours if she catches you sleeping on the job."
Wilson moaned in protest, clutching at House's jacket more firmly. "Don't care," he muttered. "Like sleeping."
"You heard him," House told Cuddy. "He can take those hours you threatened me with." House pried Wilson's fingers loose, nudging him upright. "I'm not your pillow," he complained, but he kept his arm around Wilson's shoulders. "Sit up straight."
Wilson grumbled, but obeyed, leaning against the wall for support. Cuddy gasped when she got a clear look at his face. A gauze bandage covered a cut above his left eye, which was swelling shut and already shaded black and blue. Traces of blood still trailed down his cheek and onto his white dress shirt.
"Does he need stitches?" she asked House.
"Already done," House replied. "It's not as bad as it looks. You know head wounds bleed a lot."
"What the hell happened?"
"Do you want the Reader's Digest version or the play-by-play?" House asked.
"What do you think?"
House had sobered up enough to know when to back off. "Right. Wilson needed a drink, so we went to a bar. The subhuman over there took a swing at me, Wilson got in the way." He pointed to a burly man in an adjoining cell who was holding an ice pack to his head. "Wilson fell and smacked his face on the corner of the pool table. Brawn over brains tried to kick him when he was down, so I cracked him over the head with my cane, the bartender called the police, and here we are."
Cuddy looked at Wilson's bruised and bloodied face and then back at the guy in the next cell. She didn't even realise she was rising until House grabbed her shoulder and pushed her back down. "Take it easy, Mama Bear," he said. "If you get brought up on an assault charge who will take us home?"
She took a deep breath and forced the fury into a compartment for when she could deal with it in the gym or on the tennis court. Wilson's good eye was wide open now and he smiled when he focussed on Cuddy. "Hi, Cuddy," he said, looking so pleased to see her that Cuddy smiled back. "Did you get arrested too?"
Cuddy blinked and looked worriedly at House. "Has he had a neuro exam?" she whispered, though it was apparent that Wilson wasn't entirely processing the conversation.
"I think that will have to wait until he sobers up," House replied dryly. "Half a dozen shots of tequila tend to skew the results. Pupils are even, his reflexes are as good as can be expected, and he mostly knows who he is."
Wilson touched the bruise on his cheek and winced. "What happened to my face?"
"You're a clumsy drunk and now all the nurses are going to run screaming from you."
Wilson just shrugged. "Probably for the best." He pushed himself straighter and let his head flop from side to side so he could look first at House and then at Cuddy. "He needs a pill," he said. "Took 'em away."
Cuddy cursed herself for not realising that sooner. "I'll get them for you," she told House when she saw him rub his right thigh. "Then we'll get you both out of here." She got up and banged on the cell door, skewering Wilson's assailant with a glare that had reduced even the most arrogant surgeons to quivering wrecks. "Dr. House has a bottle of prescription pills with his effect," she said, when the duty officer came by. "Please bring it to me. And could I have a cloth and a bowl of water?" She transferred the glare to the officer when he looked as if he were about to protest, and he rushed off to do her bidding faster than a first-year resident.
Once she had her requested items, she tossed the pills to House and wet the cloth, gently wiping down Wilson's face. He sighed with relief when the cool material touched his eye. "That's nice," he murmured, smiling gratefully at her. "You're a good doctor."
House snorted. "Kiss ass. You think complimenting her is going to keep you out of trouble?"
"Shut up," Wilson retorted. "Gave up keeping out of trouble the day I met you." He blinked and trained his good eye on Cuddy. "Did you come to rescue us?"
Cuddy brushed the hair off his forehead and passed the cloth over his face again. "Do you need rescuing?"
He smiled broadly. "Always." He brought his left wrist up to his face and squinted. "My watch is missing. I lost my watch." He slid towards the edge of the cot, preparing to stand up. "I have to go back and find it."
House grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back. "Slow it down, sport. Your watch is safe. The cops have it. They probably think knowing exactly how long you've been stuck in this hellhole will drive you to suicide."
"Oh." Wilson rubbed his face, wincing when his fingers touched the corner of his mouth. "Hurts."
House offered a Vicodin to Wilson, who grimaced and shook his head. "Idiot," House said fondly.
"You're both idiots," Cuddy retorted. "Getting into a bar fight at your age."
"I'm sorry," Wilson said immediately. "My fault. All my fault." He lowered his head, shoulders curling towards each other.
Cuddy glanced at House, who shook his head. "I started the fight - well, technically asshole over there started it, but I provoked him. Wilson only got involved because he's got a hero complex." He jabbed Wilson in the shoulder. "Stop blaming yourself for things outside your control," House snapped. "God, no wonder people want to beat you up."
"House!" She knew House was oblivious to other people's feelings, but that was low even for him. Then she saw the expression on his face and knew that he was far from oblivious to Wilson's feelings. "What happened?" she asked softly.
"He ran into Julie at the grocery store. She wasn't alone."
Cuddy nodded. She thought Wilson had been handling this latest divorce too well. "So you went out to drown his sorrows and managed to piss off a behemoth in the process. That's just great." She wondered how she was going to explain to the board that two of the hospital's department heads had managed to get themselves thrown into jail. It made her either want to laugh or cry, so she settled on the former, smothering a fit of giggles in her hands.
Wilson looked up, one eye wide. "You're not mad?"
"Oh, I'm mad all right," she said, still giggling. "And I'll be extracting my revenge in many, many ways, starting with when you explain to your fellow board members why you look like you went a round with Mike Tyson."
Wilson groaned. "You're not making me feel better," he complained and he looked so pathetic that Cuddy leaned over and gave him a hug. "Now that makes me feel better," he said, hugging back.
"Quick, Cuddy," House stage whispered. "Get his sperm while he's drunk and willing. Odds are he never remember."
Cuddy tensed, hating that House knew exactly where to strike the most painful blow. She pulled gently away from Wilson, not wanting to hurt his feelings, nor lend too much credence to House's comment. "You know, I can still cancel that paperwork," she snarled at House.
"Go right ahead. It'll give you some alone time with Little Jimmy."
"Cuddy's too smart to want my sperm," Wilson said suddenly, and a little too soberly, as he leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. "I'm a cheating, arrogant, self-centred, passive-aggressive bastard." He quirked the undamaged corner of his mouth. "With an asshole for a best friend."
"Wow. Julie said all that in the produce section? I should go to the grocery store more often."
But if the words were glib, the expression on House's face was anything but light hearted. Cuddy was glad she wasn't Julie Wilson. "At least she was right about the asshole best friend," she joked.
"He's not an asshole," Wilson retorted fiercely. He glanced at House and started to laugh. "He's just misunderstood."
House grimaced when Wilson listed against him, but Cuddy noticed he didn't move away. "At least he's a happy drunk," he mused. "Even if he is useless in a bar fight."
"I thought you said he took a punch for you?"
"I said he got in the way. If Wilson hadn't stepped in like a self-sacrificing moron we would have both been fine. And if he hadn't been bleeding all over the floor, the bartender wouldn't have called 911 and we wouldn't be here. So yeah, I guess it was all his fault."
Wilson lifted his head off House's shoulder. "I was bleeding?" He touched the bandage above his eye and then looked down at his shirt. "Ah, man, I liked this shirt. And where's my tie? Is it with my watch?"
"Right. Your tie." House looked almost sheepish. "Collateral damage."
Wilson sat up and glared at House. "What do you mean? What did you do to my tie?" The tequila shots appeared to be wearing off rapidly.
"I had to stop the bleeding with something," House protested, a little too innocently.
Wilson squirmed and pulled a pristine handkerchief out of his back pocket. "What about this?"
"I wasn't going to ruin your handkerchief. I like your handkerchief. Your mother gave you that handkerchief. Julie bought you that tie." He virtually hissed her name. "I hate that tie. Ugly paisley thing. You're lucky I didn't burn it."
Cuddy blinked. She was fairly certain Wilson had been wearing a solid blue tie earlier in the day.
"She bought me that tie for our first anniversary," Wilson said wistfully.
"That was an anniversary present?" Cuddy exclaimed. She knew exactly which tie House was talking about. He was right, it was ugly. The marriage had clearly been doomed from the start. She shook her head. "So you meet your wife in the grocery store with her lover, she insults you in public, and then you go home and change into a tie that she gave you. What, out of nostalgia?"
"You're pathetic," House sneered. "She got rid of everything that reminded her of you, including the cleaning lady, and you're still clinging to every hideous article of clothing she ever bought you."
For one horrible moment, Cuddy thought Wilson was going to start crying. But even drunk, he kept a tight rein on his emotions. He merely thinned his mouth in disapproval and pushed himself off the cot, as a prelude to stalking away dramatically. Unfortunately the tequila hadn't completely worn off and he wobbled like a defective weeble, before tripping over his feet and falling down.
Cuddy hurried over to help him, but he shook her hand off his shoulder. "Leave me alone," he muttered, crawling to the corner, where he pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face in his arms.
"Better do as he says," House advised, when Cuddy started to follow. "He'll get over it."
"Of course. That's your usual response to an emotional situation. Ignore it and it'll go away."
"Hey, you started it. I just said what you were thinking."
"Stop it." Wilson lifted his head and glared at them. "Why can't you two talk civilly to each other? And why is it that the only thing you can agree on is how pathetic I am."
This time Cuddy ignored House's warning headshake and went over to sit next to Wilson, mirroring his position. "That's not true," she said gently. "We agree on a lot of things, the most important one being that we hate to see you unhappy." She put her arm around his shoulders, counting it as a victory when he didn't pull away. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry Julie hurt you. And I'm sorry we made fun of you."
Wilson didn't say anything, but he leaned a little closer and Cuddy knew the apology had been accepted. For all his faults, Wilson was the most forgiving person she knew. Unless, of course, it was House who was attacked and then he held grudges for years. She wondered what it would be like to have that kind of unconditional loyalty. She looked over at House and saw him watching Wilson carefully.
When Wilson caught and then held his gaze, House jerked his head. "Get off the ground, Jimmy. You're making me sore just watching you."
To Cuddy's surprise, Wilson nodded and struggled to his feet, stumbling with slightly more success back to the cot. "You're buying me a new tie," he stated, and the subject was closed. He looked over at Cuddy and smiled, patting the mattress beside him.
"Threesome!" House exclaimed, grunting when Wilson elbowed him hard in the side.
Perhaps the loyalty wasn't entirely unconditional, Cuddy thought, settling back down with her two troublesome boys. Despite the locale - and the circumstances - she was almost enjoying herself. It wasn't often that she had House exactly where she wanted him - locked away and not terrorizing any patients or staff - and it never hurt to have extra leverage on Wilson. She hadn't entirely forgiven him for knocking her out of the last poker tournament. It was too bad she'd forgotten to grab her cell phone from the charger in her rush to get down to the station. It would have made a perfect picture for her wallpaper. Still, she'd be able to dine out on the story for months.
Wilson rested his head on her shoulder, dozing, and for just one moment the maternal ache within her eased. When Wilson stirred and sat up, she missed the contact almost immediately.
"Thank you for coming to get us," he said. "I owe you."
He gave her a sleepy half-smile, one that would have melted most of the nursing staff. The right corner of his mouth wasn't quite responding, and she decided he was suffering enough for his transgressions. She'd find a plausible excuse for the board. Cuddy caught House's eye. "You better believe it. I had to shell out $500 to get you two reprobates out of jail."
"And since it was all your fault, you can pay my share as well," House said.
"Pay your own damn fine, House," Wilson retorted, but he was still smiling.
Sergeant Wylie appeared at the door, holding House's cane. "You two are free to go," he said. "And try not to make this a habit."
Wilson pushed himself upright, swaying slightly, while Cuddy hurried over to get House's cane. Cuddy noticed a new chip on the shaft and wondered how much medical attention the asshole in the next cell had needed. She found she didn't care. All she cared about was getting her two doctors out of there.
Wilson detoured into bathroom, leaving Cuddy and House to finish off the paperwork, emerging a few minutes later, looking far more alert and walking steadier. His hair was damp and the swelling around his eye was a little less pronounced. He signed for his possessions and slipped his watch on. "Thank you for calling Dr. Cuddy," Wilson said, shaking Wylie's hand with as much dignity as he could summon. "I'm sorry for the bother."
"He went to school in Canada," House whispered conspiratorially. "I think they brainwashed him." He very pointedly didn't shake the sergeant's hand.
"Thank you for your help," Cuddy said, taking the receipt and copies of paperwork Wylie handed her. "Believe it or not, these two actually are useful members of society." She frowned and looked House. "Well at least Dr. Wilson is."
"He just got in with a bad crowd," House agreed. "His mother and I are hoping that a new school will make a difference."
Wylie gave her a sympathetic smile and waved as she herded House and Wilson towards the exit before House could say something that would get him thrown back in a cell.
"I'm hungry," Wilson proclaimed, once they were outside the police station.
"Breakfast," House agreed.
Cuddy glanced at her watch. It was just after 4:30. There was no point in going back to bed. She had a meeting at 7:30. "Fine. We'll go for breakfast and then you two are opening the clinic."
"Wilson can't go into work looking like that," House protested. "Who wants a doctor walking around with a bloody shirt? Doesn't exactly inspire confidence."
"Oh please. Wilson has more suits in his office than you do in your whole wardrobe."
"What if he has a concussion?"
Cuddy wasn't buying House's sudden concern over Wilson's well being. She knew he was only angling to get out of clinic duty. "Then it'll be a good thing he's at a hospital."
"I don't have a concussion," Wilson added helpfully. "Though I think I'm still drunk."
He had a point. "We'll have a long breakfast. With lots of coffee. You'll be fine by seven." She watched him try to remember how many drinks he'd had, calculate how long it would take to metabolize the alcohol, and come to the same conclusion. At this rate he'd probably be fine by six. Or at least fine enough to treat the usual run of colds and minor injuries.
She was looking forward to breakfast, though. House would undoubtedly torment her to the point of insanity, with Wilson wavering between defending her and joining in, but it would be entertaining. Not that she would ever admit that to House.
The sky was fading from black to a deep blue, with not a cloud in the sky. It was going to be a beautiful day. She linked arms with both men, deciding she should be allowed some liberties after sacrificing her beauty sleep for them. House made a token effort to shake her free, but Wilson seemed glad of the contact, bumping against her affectionately.
Once again she wished for a camera, not for blackmail purposes, but to capture the moment before it faded away like a dream. She shook her head. James Wilson in a bar fight. Greg House almost acting kind. Maybe it was a dream.
"Something wrong?" Wilson asked, looking at her quizzically.
"Nothing." She smiled and headed for her car. "Just wondering how I'm going to get that alligator out of my basement."
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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