Title: Jailbird
Rating: PG-13 for foul language
Pairing: Tritter/House implied
Description: House reflects on his altercation with Tritter, as he waits out a long night in prison.
Author's Note: Just had to jot this bit of an epilogue down after Fools for Love because, come on, who doesn't believe that Tritter totally nailed House's ass afterward in repayment for the thermometer stunt? Alas, that I can't write smut, so everything's implied.

In retrospect, it could've been worse - the guy could've used a nightstick during the cavity search.

House winced and shifted his position again against the hard seat of the prison bench, trying to find an angle that didn't magnify the soreness by 6397123 percent. A little difficult, considering he only had three good limbs to balance on. Apparently, Thermometer Cop had decided to dispense with both the lubricant and the foreplay, opting instead for the au naturel treatment for really dry dick - using his fingers. The way they'd been jabbing there, you would've thought he was expecting to pull another cane out.

...Maybe mentioning the unsedated colonoscopy of a 19-yr-old girl wasn't such a good idea?

Either way, House was now sans any form of leg support. Or cool leather jacket. Helmet. Pills. Keys. Gameboy with the ultra-super high score in Metroid on it. In fact, the only item of worth that Tritter did leave him with was his red-and-black Nike sneakers, which, given the look of his hobo cellmate in the corner, wasn't going to last long.

Wilson better have a good excuse for not picking up his phone. Like dying.

House sighed and leaned his head back against the grimy cement walls of his modern-day cage. The important thing at this point was to plot his next move once bail was posted on his behalf. Revenge, definitely. Sabotage. A bigger thermometer to stick up the entire police department's ass. As for the pills...well, Cuddy and Wilson would end up vouching for him, surely, and if not, he could always play up his cripple status in court. Gimp-based profiling. Latino accents weren't too hard to fake.

Slowly, his eyes drifted closed as he tucked his arms around his flimsy shirt to keep out the chilly November air. It could've been worse. There could've been actual sex involved, instead of a rougher-than-usual strip search. And, the abuse could've been focused on his leg rather than his ass. The way Tritter had gazed at him, dead-eyed (I'm looking for humiliation), House...wasn't quite sure for a second whether he'd taken the line about prison rape as a joke.

At least he still had his sneakers.

"Hey, man," a smirking voice called from above.

Or not.

"Them's some nice digs."