The red and blue revolving lights appear suddenly in Wilson's rearview mirror, and he glances up and immediately curses. After the visit to the bail bondsman, the meeting with Detective Tritter, and the hugely unpleasant discovery that House -- his erstwhile best idiot friend House -- has been forging his name on prescriptions, Wilson is in no mood to deal with any more legal matters this week. Nevertheless, it's the police, so he pulls carefully onto the shoulder and rests his forehead for just a moment on the steering wheel. A full fourteen hours at the hospital today have left him utterly exhausted, and all he wants to do is get back to his hotel room and relax. He doesn't think he's been speeding, but if he has he hopes the cop will let him off with just a warning. It's not like he's House, after all.
There's a tap at the driver's side window; he looks up to see a hand motioning him out of the car. Wilson blinks and rolls down the window.
"I'm sorry, Officer, what's the problem?"
No answer, just the hand motioning again. Wilson sighs, unbuckles his seat belt, and opens the car door. It's not until he's shut the door behind him that he really bothers to look at the cop.
Tritter.
The detective is just standing there, his head cocked slightly to one side. The expression on his face is one of ... amusement? Wilson isn't sure.
"Detective," he says flatly. "Are you following me like you did House?"
Tritter's expression doesn't change. "Dr. Wilson. Could you please step around to the passenger side of your car?"
Wilson stares at him. "Why?" he asks finally.
There's a short silence, and then Tritter cocks his head in the other direction. "Dr. Wilson." His voice is very soft. "I really don't think you're in a position to be asking the questions right now." The big detective hasn't moved closer, but he's bouncing just a little on the balls of his feet. "Please -- the passenger side of your car. Now."
The natural instinct to obey a police officer's direct order kicks in, and Wilson walks slowly around the front of the Volvo, not stopping until he's standing next to the hinge of the passenger door.
"Please face the car, Dr. Wilson, and put your hands on the hood." Tritter's voice is entirely neutral.
Wilson's exasperation boils over. "Look, what the hell is this?" he demands, but the detective is suddenly next to him, spinning him around and shoving Wilson's stomach against the vehicle's side, right where the hood rises to meet the windshield.
"I said, hands on the hood, Doctor."
Wilson obeys, a thread of doubt and fear beginning to form in the back of his mind. He's in his shirtsleeves, and he shivers a little in the brisk night air.
Tritter uses his right foot to nudge at Wilson's French leather shoes, forcing his legs a little further apart. Wilson grits his teeth as he feels hands roaming over his body, patting him down, thrusting into his pants pockets.
"Look, whatever this is about --"
"Shhhh," the detective says. He pulls one hand out of Wilson's pants. "Now what's this I've found?" His voice sounds genuinely curious, and Wilson looks back over his shoulder. It's a bottle of pills.
The doubt and fear in Wilson's mind are joined by abrupt, unbelieving shock. "What the hell?" he exclaims. "Those aren't mine!" He starts to turn around, lifting his hands from the car hood, and gasps when he is shoved back down.
"Why, Dr. Wilson." Tritter still sounds so calm, so quietly serious, so ... gentle. "Hands on the back of your head, please."
"Why are you doing this?" Wilson's mouth is going dry. He doesn't dare look behind him.
"Hands on the back of your head, please, Doctor."
Wilson straightens up, moving slowly to obey, and somehow isn't surprised when he feels the cold metal of a handcuff snick shut around his right wrist. Tritter pulls both his arms behind his back and snaps the other cuff closed.
This sucks, Wilson thinks. This sucks on so many levels. How am I going to explain this to Cuddy? Another thought strikes him. Something's wrong here.
"Aren't you supposed to read me my rights?" he asks.
Silence from behind him as Tritter seems to consider the question. "Why?" he asks.
"Because you're arresting me?" Wilson can't keep the slight note of sarcasm out of his voice.
There's a longer silence. Wilson can hear the detective chewing his nicotine gum. "Who said I'm arresting you?" he says finally. "This isn't about arresting anyone. I think your friend Dr. House has made sure of that, don't you?" His tone is calm, conversational. He's moved closer, and Wilson can smell the gum now. He flexes his hands a little, trying not to think about how he's shivering and knowing it's not from the night air.
He flinches as Tritter reaches around his pinioned arms. It's the closeness of a lover's embrace, only reinforced by Tritter's hands working at his belt buckle. The detective's mouth is right next to his ear, and he can feel warm breath on the side of his neck. Wilson swallows convulsively. "What --" he whispers, and stumbles back a little. Tritter pushes him gently against the Volvo's side again.
The belt buckle undone, the detective moves on to the pants button. A few cars go by on the road. No one can see anything, Wilson realizes. That's why he put me on the passenger side. His heart is starting to pound as his fear ramps up exponentially. The button is freed and the sound of his zipper being pulled down has the hissing loudness of a steam press in his ears. His pants are given the slightest of tugs, and they fall in a puddle about his ankles. His suddenly-bare legs are instantly covered with goose-pimples in the cold air. His stomach churns as he feels Tritter's fingers on the elastic waistband of his boxers.
"No," Wilson says. His breathing is shallow and harsh, and he pulls against the cuffs. "Please, no." Whatever nightmare game this is has gone far enough, and Wilson is fully prepared to ask for it to stop.
"You know," the detective says, "I can't count how many times now I've told your friend Dr. House that he's a jerk." He pushes a thumb in between the elastic and Wilson's torso. "A bully." Another thumb, on the other side. "An asshole." And in one swift motion, the boxers join the pants at Wilson's feet. "But he won't listen to me."
Wilson is trembling uncontrollably as Tritter places one hand between his shoulder blades and forces him down on the Volvo's hood. The car is very cold against Wilson's cheek as the big detective leans in close, making sure Wilson can see him. The calm gentleness of his demeanor hasn't changed.
"All this that's happening," he tells Wilson, "is happening because of him. You can tell him that. See if he listens to you." Tritter's face disappears as he stands back up, and the hand shifts away with him.
Wilson's breath is coming in whining gasps and his naked buttocks are freezing in the crisp night air. He's trying to keep from actually starting to cry when he hears something that causes his balls to draw up even tighter: the rustling sound of clothing, and then the unmistakable snap of a latex glove. Wilson tries to rise, but a strong hand grips the back of his neck and he can't get enough leverage. The detective easily keeps him pinned down.
"You don't want to do that," Tritter says, and at virtually the same moment something hard, cold, and thin slides up Wilson's ass. He yelps and attempts to jerk away, but both of Tritter's hands are on his shoulders now, holding him firmly in place. "Hush now," the detective says, as if talking to a weeping child. "This won't last long."
Wilson shudders, hands twisting helplessly against the cuffs, as Tritter waits, seeming to count off the minutes. At last, keeping one hand on Wilson's back, he uses the other to pull the foreign object out. A whimper escapes Wilson's throat. There's a long silence, during which the only sound that can be heard is gasp after gasp from Wilson as he struggles for self-control.
"98.6," Tritter says at last, and lays something down on the hood by Wilson's head. "Good to know, isn't it, doc?" The detective sounds suddenly jovial, and the pressure is released from Wilson's back. In another moment the cuffs are gone, and Wilson slowly brings his freed arms to rest palms down, on either side of his chest. His breath hitches; he raises one hand to his face and, wiping the unshed tears from his eyes, looks at what Tritter has set next to him.
A rectal thermometer. A hysterical laugh tries to build in his throat but he chokes it back down.
Tritter leans over him again, and Wilson's breath dies in his lungs.
"Tell Dr. House," the detective whispers as if sharing a secret, "I'm still waiting for my apology."
And with that he's gone, striding back to his unmarked car.
Wilson slides to the tarmac, finally allowing the hot tears to break free in muffled, gulping sobs. The pebbles and gravel of the roadside are sharp and knobbly under his bare ass; even so, he sits there for a long time.
fin