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Dec. 30th, 2006 | 12:10 pm
posted by: andrealyn in santahouse_md

For HiFalootin.

Title: Rehabilitation
Summary: Wilson and Cuddy annex House’s life.
Spoilers: Tritter Arc
Rating: PG then NC-17 at the end.
Prompt: Sub/Dom, Work Place Harassment, Happy Ending
Ship: Wilson/House, with Cuddy involved.

Wilson and Cuddy are miracle workers. They escort Tritter into Cuddy’s office, as House observes them, and spend thirty-minutes dealing with the devil. House wishes that reading lips were one of his never-ending talents. He never figures out what exactly the two say, but it causes the cop to make his anticipated stage exit. Tritter leaves without confrontation, or a final sermon (probably, because House manages to be seeing a patient at the time).

“House!” Cuddy stands with hand on the open door, “My office.”

Oh, that sounds special. House leers at her, but obeys. He squeezes her left breast as he passes by. “Girls are firm. Sure there’s not a bun in that oven?”

Cuddy leers as she pushes him into the office. Wilson leans against the desk, hands crossed, trying to look intimating – which, House finds laughable. The man is a puppy. House wants to walk over and ruff up the man’s perfectly blow-dried hair.

“We have made some decisions,” Cuddy says. Her voice waivers, but after a reassuring look from Wilson, she continues with that administrative hard-ass tone House knows (and loves). “Tritter agreed to drop the charges. But…” Cuddy sighs, “that doesn’t change the fact you’re out of control and you’re a drug addict. We know you won’t go to rehab. We know we cannot force you to go to rehab. Even if we did, forcing you to go there against your will is pointless and insane. So, we’re taking over.”

House scoffs. “Oh, you are? Just like you tried to teach me some humility and like you tried to detox me before?” They are so stupid; endearing in the hopeless way, but so very stupid. This will never work. He never appreciated the gesture before; the hell he will start thanking them now.

“No,” Wilson says. “Before, we allowed too much leeway. This time there will be no more free-floating Vicodin. You will receive two pills, four times a day. Cuddy will oversee the afternoon dosages; I will oversee the morning and evenings. You will attend physical therapy three times a week. You will see a psychiatrist once a week. And I’m moving back in to ensure that this all goes as planned.”

“The hell you are,” House shouts. They are… mad. They’ve completely lost their mind.

Cuddy says, “If you ask your lackeys for a prescription, I’ll fire them. Then I’ll see that they never work again. If you alternate or undermine any part of the plan, I’ll report you to the medical board. They will revoke your license. And you’ll go to jail.”

“An idle threat,” House says. “Wilson would never –”

Wilson says, “I would.”

“You fucking dare, and I’ll take you down with me. You –” House turns back to Cuddy, “and this precious hospital.”

“You have three options,” Wilson says: “Jail, rehab, or us. At least with us, you’ll have all the comforts of home.”

“We’re over.” House spats at Wilson as he barges back to his office. “Over.”

“I know,” Wilson sighs. House didn’t see either Cuddy or Wilson’s eyes mist over as he left.


Cuddy controls his days.

Sometimes, he wishes he went to jail. House is a crafty man; it might’ve taken his a few months, but he could’ve worked the prison system – and its black market – to his liking. At least then, he’d have his pride.

He stands in Cuddy’s office unable to look her in the eyes. Usually he has no problem staring her down and getting his way. That was in the golden days, the days before Tritter walked into his world and fucked it over. It isn’t his world anymore. It is a playground for him, run with a whip and chain by Cassius and Brutus.

Cuddy says, “House?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“I’m serious. Have you completed your clinic hours?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Any complaints?” House glares at her. Now she is just enjoying it. She loves him coming into her office every six hours. “Any complaints?”


“And the charting?”


“Excellent.” Then she waits. She never gives in. She waits. Even after three months, she always waits for him to say:

“May I please have my Vicodin?”

“Of course, Dr. House.” Cuddy hands him two pills. “And?”

House grabs them. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”


House doesn’t see the point in a psychiatrist if they cannot prescribe any pills. Brutus and Cassius enlist the Head of the Psychiatry, Dr. Beatrice Myers, as one of their co-conspirators. Every Thursday morning House reports to her office for a two hour session.

A complete waste of time, House never says a word. Myers, from behind her desk, always busies herself with paperwork and prescriptions. She’ll absentmindedly ask House stupid questions – if only so she has something to report back to the tyrants. Occasionally, she asks something of consequence.

“Do you at least understand why they did it?” She asks after the first month. Myers polishes her glasses and readjusts them.

“Moot point.”

“Understanding is the first step to acceptance.”

“I’m not about to accept what they did.”

“Maybe you should.”


Wilson controls his nights and days off. His best friend is no longer his best friend, but his master. Wilson decides when and what he eats, when he sleeps, when he receives his pills –

When they have sex.

House hates him for it. They fight, every day. House can’t stand looking at him, but Wilson won’t leave. House changes the locks, and Wilson calls the locksmith. House ignores Wilson at work, but Wilson just smirks and keeps stopping in for consults. Cuddy supports every action. The lackeys don’t know what to think or say, so they just do their jobs.

“You’re going to a special place in hell,” House snaps one night. Wilson’s in the kitchen putting away the dishes.

“I’ve made my peace with God,” Wilson retorts in his dry and sly manner.

“Get the hell out of my apartment.”

“Every night you say that. Every night I ignore you.” Wilson fishes out two Vicodin and hands them to House. They never keep the pills in the apartment. Everyday Wilson only brings home the correct amount needed for the time away from the hospital.

House pops them. “It won’t work. I’m not just going to wake up one day and thank you both for what you did.”

Wilson rubs his temple and sits down on the couch. He keeps his distance from House. “I don’t want your thanks. I don’t even want your forgiveness.”

“Then why? Is this just a more sadist form of your need to be needed?”

“House, shut up,” Wilson said. “I love you.”

House guffawed. “No, you don’t.”

“No, I do. If you didn’t, I would’ve let Tritter feast on you. I would’ve let the Vicodin kill your liver. I would’ve let you kill yourself a thousand times over. But I’m getting older. I’m less patient now. I won’t watch you kill yourself. So, you can hate me. You can curse me, make a voodoo doll, pray to a God you don’t believe in to smite me down. Fine. But I told you – I made my peace. Think what you want. I don’t care anymore. Now, stop your sulking. Dr. Who is on Sci-Fi.”


“Will you ever forgive him?” Dr. Myers asks one afternoon, about seven months into the coup.

House can not meet her eyes. He’ll never admit that he currently suffers from Stockholm Syndrome.


Wilson fucks him until he cries and his body numbs. He craves the pain. Rehab cannot render an addictive personality moot. An addict is always an addict. When House was younger he was addicted to puzzles, science kits, and Jagger; as a teenager he was addicted to Rubik’s cubes, pot, and Peter Townsend; as an adult he progressed to medical abnormalities, off-track betting, Stacy, Vicodin, and now… Wilson.

Wilson always tops: he holds down House’s wrists and teases him until the man begs. House hates Wilson. Fucking manipulative bastard knows exactly what he does every time he drags House to bed. Wilson starts off slow, takes his time, grabs what he wants without ever giving House anything in return. Wilson wants to teach House about restraint and control. He intends to fuck the humility into House. House learns, finally, just how Jimmy managed to nail all those babes: stamina and restraint. He excels at foreplay. Only when House begs and pleads enough will Wilson deviate. He’ll fuck him hard and fast, relentless. Afterward, after Wilson comes, House passes out for the night. In the morning, at 8:00 am, Wilson shakes him awake and presses two Vicodin in his hands.

It takes a year, but one morning, House says thank you. And means it.

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Comments {4}

fashion metal riot

(no subject)

from: hi_falootin
date: Dec. 30th, 2006 07:33 pm (UTC)

Oh man, Secret Santa, you are the best. This is just so perfect. Wilson's "I love you" speech totally killed me, and Cuddy and House were both perfect. And Stockholm Syndome! And Julius Casear references! House's addiction list!

Best present ever. Thankyouthankyouthankyou

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(no subject)

from: savemoony
date: Jan. 7th, 2007 02:18 am (UTC)

You're welcome! I'm really glad you enjoyed it. I was worried.

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fashion metal riot

(no subject)

from: hi_falootin
date: Jan. 7th, 2007 07:27 am (UTC)

aww, you're my secret santa! it's good to know =D

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(no subject)

from: savemoony
date: Jan. 7th, 2007 08:10 am (UTC)

I am! *huggles*

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