SUMMARY: House never was one to share.
CHARACTERS: Cuddy, House
RATING: R for language and themes (gen fic).
WARNINGS: Details the aftermath of events in Bad Company, a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
NOTES: The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in Bad Company; the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.
Cuddy mentally smacks herself as soon as she hears the second ring over the phone line. Of course Wilson isn't going to answer the phone; it's hard enough to talk to him face to face. The information she has for him isn't something to be left on an answering machine, either.
She doesn't have much time to think up something else to say, though, as House's outgoing message is short and less than sweet. So she falls back on the tried-and-true:
"House, on the off chance that you're there instead of where you're supposed to be, I'm warning you now: Answer your cell phone or so help me, I'm spamming the hospital with that picture. You know which one."
She smiles as she hangs up. She has, in fact, several pictures; she keeps a copy of her favorite in her desk drawer and peeks at it on days when House is particularly trying. It will drive House nuts not to know what she's talking about, not to mention it will give Wilson a puzzle to solve.
She can tell he's rolling his eyes, even though his back is to her. House can roll his eyes with his whole body. As Cuddy gets closer, he turns and growls, "My patient is cured, I did my shift in Biohazard Bay, and Wilson is lonely. You can't make me stay here."
Cuddy smiles gently as she steps in close to him. "I'm not making you do anything. But I do want to talk to you, and you don't seem to respond to anything else."
"Because this way, I can look down your shirt," House leers as he leans a little and pointedly looks down at her collarbones. She shoves a small white card under his nose, blocking his view.
"I called in some favors," she says softly. "For Wilson. Dr. Simonds specializes in trauma cases."
House grabs the card and scans it quickly. "Wilson doesn't need a shrink."
Cuddy grabs his wrist. "Yes, he does. He was beaten within an inch of his life for no reason." She's close enough to catch his wince, but she ignores it; House feeling guilty over a random event makes him more human, somehow. "His physical recovery is going to take months. He needs to talk to someone about this."
"He's got me," he replies and tugs on his wrist. Of course, House never was one to share.
She doesn't let go. "Right. You're excellent with the emotional processing. You need therapy, yourself."
"He's convalescing. It's bad enough I've got to drag him to OT twice a week, I'm not dragging him across town to mumble for an hour." House tries again to pull his hand away, but Cuddy shifts her stance and grabs his other wrist, too, resting her hand over his on his cane. She so rarely has House cornered; part of her relishes the small victory.
"That's part of the favor. I talked to her, she knows the basic facts of Wilson's injuries. She's agreed to come to the apartment until Wilson's ready to go to her office. All you need to do is tell Wilson about it."
House glares at her.
"It's his call, House," she says, releasing his wrists and stepping back. "Not yours. Tell him, let him make the decision."
He stuffs the card in his pocket and heads for the doors.
"I'm coming over next week, House," Cuddy calls after him. "If you don't tell him, I will."