Houseficlet: Probable Cause
Aug. 2nd, 2008 05:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nightdog_barksPosting sometime tonight ... the ending has changed just a tiny bit. Does anyone see anything that burbles, grumps, or wedges? :-)
1,572 words.
ETA: Posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
house_wilson and housefic, unlocking here.
TITLE: Probable Cause
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nightdog_writes
CHARACTERS: House, Cameron, Cuddy, OMCs, ... Wilson.
RATING: PG-13.
WARNINGS: No.
SPOILERS: In a general sense, yes, for the Season 4 finale.
SUMMARY: An unexpected act by Wilson provokes a sideswipe from House's past. 1,572 words.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: Readers may note the two OMCs in this story also appeared in the Aftershocks series, although that long collaborative fic has nothing to do with this one. This story was largely sparked by reading the American novelist Richard Price's Lush Life.
BETA: My intrepid First Readers -- many thanks as always for their insight and encouragement.
lj cut
Probable Cause
"I'm not talking to you," Cameron says.
House scrubs one hand over his face and blinks owlishly at the clock radio on the nightstand. 3:15. And it's dark, which must mean it's ... night?
"House? Are you there? House?"
"You're not talking t'me," House grumbles. He closes his eyes. "Wrong number. Hanging up now."
"House! Hold on! It's about Wilson!"
House's eyes snap open.
"He's in the ER," Cameron continues, apparently secure in the belief that House hasn't simply put the phone down and gone back to sleep. "He's going to be all right -- he didn't want me to call anybody, but I thought you should know."
House scrubs at his face again; his mouth is dry and his leg is starting to throb. Background noise filters through the receiver -- clatters and bangs, shouted orders, the typical ambiance of a stressed ER.
"What happened?"
Cameron's voice becomes softer, a tone of shared confidences.
"The ER's full of police," she says. "There was a big bar fight. They say Wilson started it."
"Where?" House asks, knowing the answer before she says it.
"Sharrie's."
"Concussion," Cameron says, pushing the coffee mug closer to him. With the door shut, the office is quiet. Some of the other attendings have little knickknacks, pieces of themselves scattered around -- framed family photographs, stuffed animals. There's nothing of her in here that House recognizes.
"No thanks," he replies automatically. "Giving them up for Lent."
Cameron smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Instead, she goes on ticking off the list of Wilson's injuries.
"Bruised ribs, two black eyes, broken nose, multiple contusions, badly bruised knuckles on his left hand -- might be broken but I won't know until the X-rays come back."
"Never did know how to throw a punch," House mutters. Cameron ignores him.
"The police wanted to take him back to Borough Headquarters, toss him in a holding cell," she says. "I persuaded them he needed to stay here for twenty-four hours' observation."
"Blood alcohol?"
"Point one two."
House does the math; Wilson's lost weight recently, so ...
"At least four drinks, more likely five."
"Vodka martinis." House looks at her. "The bartender was here too. Tried to break it up before it started but he got knocked down and the bouncer caught a pool cue to the head." She glances at the papers in front of her. "Skull fracture -- that was the most serious injury, along with assorted broken bones and some lost teeth."
"Room number?"
Cameron puts her hand on the table, and for a moment he thinks she's going to make some kind of gesture, maybe cover his hand with her own, but she leaves the hand where it is and leans forward.
"He doesn't want to see you," she says, and he knows it's true.
"Room number?" he repeats.
She rolls her eyes at him. "Nineteen oh two," she says. "But be careful -- they put a guard at the door and there's a couple of detectives talking to Cuddy."
"Nothing to fear but fear itself," House mutters, and pushes up from the chair.
Wilson's room is on the other side of the main lobby, and that means he has to cross right in front of Cuddy's office. He can't stop himself from glancing in; she's there, dressed in jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt, pale and washed-out under the harsh fluorescents, no time to put on any makeup. A guy House assumes is a detective is there too -- from the back, he's built like an athlete, all wide shoulders and easy, aggressive stance, even sitting down.
Cuddy looks up just then; her expression doesn't change, gives nothing away to her guest. Still, House has known her long enough to read her message loud and clear -- NOT NOW, GO AWAY, and for once he decides it's the better part of valor to obey. He gives her the briefest of nods and turns away, only to be brought up short by the second of Cameron's "couple of detectives." This one's shorter than his partner and dark where his counterpart is blond. He's holding a cup of the hospital's shitty coffee in his right hand; the gold badge dangling from his neck is suspended on a lanyard of braided blue and yellow plastic twine, the kind of stuff kids make key fobs out of at summer camp. A hospital visitor's card, stamped by the rent-a-goons up front, is clipped to the lapel of his khaki raincoat. House squints at it. B. KAFKA.
The detective's eyes flick down to House's cane, then back up to his face.
"Dr. House," he says. "Just the man I was looking for."
House's office looks exactly the same as when he left it yesterday afternoon -- the DVD player blinking 'NO DISC' at him, the latest copy of JAMA open on the desk, stacks of paperwork waiting to be offloaded on Kutner. The cop -- he's introduced himself as Detective Kafka, the blond guy talking to Dr. Cuddy is his partner, Detective Nottingham -- has settled himself into House's guest chair and is sipping at the crappy coffee as his eyes take in every detail. A small notebook is open on his lap but he hasn't written anything down.
"Is Wilson under arrest?" House asks. The sentence threatens to get all jumbled coming out of his mouth -- 'Wilson' and 'arrest' being two words that don't belong with each other, not ever. Of course, up until a few hours ago, the words 'Wilson' and 'bar fight' had never been used in combination either.
Kafka shrugs. "Technically," he says, "Dr. Wilson's in custody right now. That's why Officer Woodkill is here, make sure he doesn't get up to take a leak and not come back." The detective's dark eyes measure House carefully. "Sergeant Honoré read him his rights in the bar."
"When he was injured," House snaps. "Right before they put him in the ambulance."
"He was walking and talking," the detective replies mildly. "The trip to the ER was just a precaution. He puked all over the Sergeant's shoes; regarding the situation, we thought he might have a concussion."
"Which he does. Another reason you don't need one of your keepers here -- he's not going to get up and walk out!"
"No?" Detective Kafka shifts in his seat a little, and suddenly House has a very bad feeling about all of this. "Because, see?" the detective continues. "I know a story -- about a doctor, even -- who was in a bus crash, terrible accident. Got up, walked away, ended up in a strip club getting a lap dance." The cop's expression is completely unreadable. "What do you think about that, Dr. House?"
House's knuckles are white where he's gripping his cane; he forces them to relax and looks the detective in the eye.
"I think you're getting half the story," he says, "from somebody who can't let bygones be bygones."
Kafka's mouth twists; his right eyebrow lifts in an amused question mark.
"You think so?" he remarks. "Maybe. Maybe not." He snaps the notebook shut, clicks his ballpoint pen, starts to fold everything back into his raincoat. "Not going to matter much anyway."
House's throat is dry. "Why not?" he grinds out, hating that he has to ask.
Detective Kafka looks at him, straight and level. "Because," he says. "We already talked to Dr. Cuddy. Dr. Wilson's boss. Your boss. She stood up for him, told us what happened to his girlfriend, this Dr. Amber Volakis. So there's mitigating circumstances, and the ADA isn't going to want to waste his time trying a case the jury'll throw out on sympathy alone. Dr. Wilson pleads to a municipal offense -- disorderly conduct, disorderly persons, he'll get community service, six months' probation tops." He cocks his head. "Why was he there, Dr. House? Sharrie's isn't the kind of establishment I'd expect a hospital department head to patronize."
Because Wilson can't help returning to the places he loses people, House thinks, but he doesn't say that.
"How should I know?" he growls instead. "Ask him yourself."
Detective Kafka nods, as if this's the answer he'd expected anyway.
"I'll do that," he says. "But not this morning. Dr. Cameron assured me he's not up for interviewing right now."
A rap at the door, and Kafka's partner, the big blond detective, Sheriff or Sherwood or something, sticks his head around.
"All done here," he announces. "You ready?"
Kafka stands up. "Dr. House," he says. "Thanks for your help." The other detective gives a cursory nod.
"Dr. House," he says, then, to his partner, "Bennie, c'mon. Let's get outta here." He reaches into a jacket pocket; cellophane crinkles as he pulls out a small plastic bag of sunflower seeds. "Hospitals make me ill."
House comes to a slow stop outside Room 1902 and looks around. There's no cop standing guard, no Officer Woodchuck or anybody else. Maybe there was never anyone here. The blinds are drawn but there's a long bar of light showing along the floor.
Wilson's awake, he knows it, and while this isn't exactly the sort of reconciliation House had ever expected, he'll take what he can get.
He puts his hand on the door, hesitates for just a minute, then slides it open. A pair of startled raccoon-eyes stare at him from the white bed-linens. House takes a deep breath.
"You idiot!" he begins.
~ fin
1,572 words.
ETA: Posted to
house_wilson and housefic, unlocking here.TITLE: Probable Cause
AUTHOR:
nightdog_writesCHARACTERS: House, Cameron, Cuddy, OMCs, ... Wilson.
RATING: PG-13.
WARNINGS: No.
SPOILERS: In a general sense, yes, for the Season 4 finale.
SUMMARY: An unexpected act by Wilson provokes a sideswipe from House's past. 1,572 words.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: Readers may note the two OMCs in this story also appeared in the Aftershocks series, although that long collaborative fic has nothing to do with this one. This story was largely sparked by reading the American novelist Richard Price's Lush Life.
BETA: My intrepid First Readers -- many thanks as always for their insight and encouragement.
lj cut
Probable Cause
"I'm not talking to you," Cameron says.
House scrubs one hand over his face and blinks owlishly at the clock radio on the nightstand. 3:15. And it's dark, which must mean it's ... night?
"House? Are you there? House?"
"You're not talking t'me," House grumbles. He closes his eyes. "Wrong number. Hanging up now."
"House! Hold on! It's about Wilson!"
House's eyes snap open.
"He's in the ER," Cameron continues, apparently secure in the belief that House hasn't simply put the phone down and gone back to sleep. "He's going to be all right -- he didn't want me to call anybody, but I thought you should know."
House scrubs at his face again; his mouth is dry and his leg is starting to throb. Background noise filters through the receiver -- clatters and bangs, shouted orders, the typical ambiance of a stressed ER.
"What happened?"
Cameron's voice becomes softer, a tone of shared confidences.
"The ER's full of police," she says. "There was a big bar fight. They say Wilson started it."
"Where?" House asks, knowing the answer before she says it.
"Sharrie's."
"Concussion," Cameron says, pushing the coffee mug closer to him. With the door shut, the office is quiet. Some of the other attendings have little knickknacks, pieces of themselves scattered around -- framed family photographs, stuffed animals. There's nothing of her in here that House recognizes.
"No thanks," he replies automatically. "Giving them up for Lent."
Cameron smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Instead, she goes on ticking off the list of Wilson's injuries.
"Bruised ribs, two black eyes, broken nose, multiple contusions, badly bruised knuckles on his left hand -- might be broken but I won't know until the X-rays come back."
"Never did know how to throw a punch," House mutters. Cameron ignores him.
"The police wanted to take him back to Borough Headquarters, toss him in a holding cell," she says. "I persuaded them he needed to stay here for twenty-four hours' observation."
"Blood alcohol?"
"Point one two."
House does the math; Wilson's lost weight recently, so ...
"At least four drinks, more likely five."
"Vodka martinis." House looks at her. "The bartender was here too. Tried to break it up before it started but he got knocked down and the bouncer caught a pool cue to the head." She glances at the papers in front of her. "Skull fracture -- that was the most serious injury, along with assorted broken bones and some lost teeth."
"Room number?"
Cameron puts her hand on the table, and for a moment he thinks she's going to make some kind of gesture, maybe cover his hand with her own, but she leaves the hand where it is and leans forward.
"He doesn't want to see you," she says, and he knows it's true.
"Room number?" he repeats.
She rolls her eyes at him. "Nineteen oh two," she says. "But be careful -- they put a guard at the door and there's a couple of detectives talking to Cuddy."
"Nothing to fear but fear itself," House mutters, and pushes up from the chair.
Wilson's room is on the other side of the main lobby, and that means he has to cross right in front of Cuddy's office. He can't stop himself from glancing in; she's there, dressed in jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt, pale and washed-out under the harsh fluorescents, no time to put on any makeup. A guy House assumes is a detective is there too -- from the back, he's built like an athlete, all wide shoulders and easy, aggressive stance, even sitting down.
Cuddy looks up just then; her expression doesn't change, gives nothing away to her guest. Still, House has known her long enough to read her message loud and clear -- NOT NOW, GO AWAY, and for once he decides it's the better part of valor to obey. He gives her the briefest of nods and turns away, only to be brought up short by the second of Cameron's "couple of detectives." This one's shorter than his partner and dark where his counterpart is blond. He's holding a cup of the hospital's shitty coffee in his right hand; the gold badge dangling from his neck is suspended on a lanyard of braided blue and yellow plastic twine, the kind of stuff kids make key fobs out of at summer camp. A hospital visitor's card, stamped by the rent-a-goons up front, is clipped to the lapel of his khaki raincoat. House squints at it. B. KAFKA.
The detective's eyes flick down to House's cane, then back up to his face.
"Dr. House," he says. "Just the man I was looking for."
House's office looks exactly the same as when he left it yesterday afternoon -- the DVD player blinking 'NO DISC' at him, the latest copy of JAMA open on the desk, stacks of paperwork waiting to be offloaded on Kutner. The cop -- he's introduced himself as Detective Kafka, the blond guy talking to Dr. Cuddy is his partner, Detective Nottingham -- has settled himself into House's guest chair and is sipping at the crappy coffee as his eyes take in every detail. A small notebook is open on his lap but he hasn't written anything down.
"Is Wilson under arrest?" House asks. The sentence threatens to get all jumbled coming out of his mouth -- 'Wilson' and 'arrest' being two words that don't belong with each other, not ever. Of course, up until a few hours ago, the words 'Wilson' and 'bar fight' had never been used in combination either.
Kafka shrugs. "Technically," he says, "Dr. Wilson's in custody right now. That's why Officer Woodkill is here, make sure he doesn't get up to take a leak and not come back." The detective's dark eyes measure House carefully. "Sergeant Honoré read him his rights in the bar."
"When he was injured," House snaps. "Right before they put him in the ambulance."
"He was walking and talking," the detective replies mildly. "The trip to the ER was just a precaution. He puked all over the Sergeant's shoes; regarding the situation, we thought he might have a concussion."
"Which he does. Another reason you don't need one of your keepers here -- he's not going to get up and walk out!"
"No?" Detective Kafka shifts in his seat a little, and suddenly House has a very bad feeling about all of this. "Because, see?" the detective continues. "I know a story -- about a doctor, even -- who was in a bus crash, terrible accident. Got up, walked away, ended up in a strip club getting a lap dance." The cop's expression is completely unreadable. "What do you think about that, Dr. House?"
House's knuckles are white where he's gripping his cane; he forces them to relax and looks the detective in the eye.
"I think you're getting half the story," he says, "from somebody who can't let bygones be bygones."
Kafka's mouth twists; his right eyebrow lifts in an amused question mark.
"You think so?" he remarks. "Maybe. Maybe not." He snaps the notebook shut, clicks his ballpoint pen, starts to fold everything back into his raincoat. "Not going to matter much anyway."
House's throat is dry. "Why not?" he grinds out, hating that he has to ask.
Detective Kafka looks at him, straight and level. "Because," he says. "We already talked to Dr. Cuddy. Dr. Wilson's boss. Your boss. She stood up for him, told us what happened to his girlfriend, this Dr. Amber Volakis. So there's mitigating circumstances, and the ADA isn't going to want to waste his time trying a case the jury'll throw out on sympathy alone. Dr. Wilson pleads to a municipal offense -- disorderly conduct, disorderly persons, he'll get community service, six months' probation tops." He cocks his head. "Why was he there, Dr. House? Sharrie's isn't the kind of establishment I'd expect a hospital department head to patronize."
Because Wilson can't help returning to the places he loses people, House thinks, but he doesn't say that.
"How should I know?" he growls instead. "Ask him yourself."
Detective Kafka nods, as if this's the answer he'd expected anyway.
"I'll do that," he says. "But not this morning. Dr. Cameron assured me he's not up for interviewing right now."
A rap at the door, and Kafka's partner, the big blond detective, Sheriff or Sherwood or something, sticks his head around.
"All done here," he announces. "You ready?"
Kafka stands up. "Dr. House," he says. "Thanks for your help." The other detective gives a cursory nod.
"Dr. House," he says, then, to his partner, "Bennie, c'mon. Let's get outta here." He reaches into a jacket pocket; cellophane crinkles as he pulls out a small plastic bag of sunflower seeds. "Hospitals make me ill."
House comes to a slow stop outside Room 1902 and looks around. There's no cop standing guard, no Officer Woodchuck or anybody else. Maybe there was never anyone here. The blinds are drawn but there's a long bar of light showing along the floor.
Wilson's awake, he knows it, and while this isn't exactly the sort of reconciliation House had ever expected, he'll take what he can get.
He puts his hand on the door, hesitates for just a minute, then slides it open. A pair of startled raccoon-eyes stare at him from the white bed-linens. House takes a deep breath.
"You idiot!" he begins.
~ fin
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-08-02 11:42 pm (UTC)Just have a moment to glance at this, but I love the change to the ending. Woodchucks, raccoons, a startled animal expression -- excellent.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-03 01:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-03 12:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-03 01:13 am (UTC)Hee!
no subject
Date: 2008-08-03 01:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-03 04:45 am (UTC)Thank you,
no subject
Date: 2008-08-03 06:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-03 03:26 pm (UTC)Just like on the show. Thanks for reading!
no subject
Date: 2008-08-03 07:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-04 12:33 am (UTC)Many thanks for reading, and for taking the time to comment!