Detective Michael Tritter had set up a little corner in his apartment for listening to the wire.
He missed the good old days of giant reel-to-reel tapes. It was so satisfying to watch the tape unspool along with the suspect's lies. Everything was digital now. Just a tiny metal recorder, with a button to hit play.
He peeled back the plastic on his TV dinner, cracked open a Coors Lite, and hit the button.
The conversation was boring at first—some flirty small talk, then discussion of House's current case, then House pouring his heart out like the lovesick chump that he was.
Finally, they got to the good stuff.
"Did you know Rachel was at my mother's?"
She was good. So calm. So calculating.
"Cuddy, I told you. I was stoned out of my skull that night. I didn't know my own first name. . ."
Bingo! Nailed you, you cocksucker. Enjoy your evening, Dr. House. Because it's going to be one of your last nights as a free man for a long while.
Tritter took a big, victorious swig of his beer. He wasn't sure why Lisa was still even talking to the guy. She should just collect her shit and get the hell out of that restaurant.
But she stayed. And they talked—more boring stuff, this time with feelings. He wished there was a way to fast-forward a live recording.
And then she—wait—was she going back to House's apartment?
"No!" he said outloud.
This was risky and completely unnecessary. She already had what she needed. But maybe she wanted more? Maybe she sensed House was in a confessional mood and might implicate himself further?
At House's place, there was the clink of glasses, then some nice jazzy piano music, seduction stuff—Tritter made a note that needed to find out what that CD was—then talk of Rachel and her ballet recital.
"She's the only one who knows the steps," House said, sounding strangely proud, like it was his kid or something.
Then this exchange:
"I haven't been this happy in three years."
"House, don't. . ."
"I can't help it. I feel like I'm in a dream right now."
"I do, too."
"Cuddy, I just love you so much. . ."
And then. . .what the hell? The distinct sound of kissing and then these little, sexy moans Lisa was making.
What was she doing? Was she still really into this guy? Or, knowing that he was listening in, was she trying to turn him on? Was it some sort of game she was playing to get him, Michael Tritter, all hot and bothered? Because it was working. He closed his eyes, pictured that tight little body of hers, naked.
"Oh my God," House was saying.
Tritter wished he could turn down the volume on House's voice. He wanted to imagine that he was the one getting Lisa to make those sounds.
And then she said, "Oh shit!"
He heard her footstep as she ran to the bathroom, and some crunching sounds as she yanked off the wire and then the tape went dead.
Tritter stared at his tape player dumbly.
Was she afraid House would find the wire? Was she in danger? Or . . .the thought was too disturbing to contemplate: Had she changed her mind about wanting to send House to jail? Is that why she ripped off the wire? Was she no longer his ally against House?
No way, he tried to assure himself. She hates him as much as you do. She's just a really good actress.
#####
Cuddy's heart was doing flip-flops in her chest.
"What is that?" House repeated.
Not five minutes ago, he was worshipping at her body like an altar. Now he was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, his face contorted in a mixture of anger, pain, and confusion.
"It's a wire," she said, lamely.
"I can see that, Cuddy," he said. "The question is: What are you doing with it?"
She considered a lie—she had come up with a few just in case he had caught her: That she had just found the wire in her purse, an old remnant from the days when she had dated Lucas. That it was a new dictation tool she was trying out for use at work.
But the stories sounded feeble, unbelievable. Besides, he deserved the truth.
"I've been recording our conversations," she admitted.
He grit his teeth and gave a hard swallow.
"Why?"
"Because I've been . . .working with the DA." And your arch nemesis Tritter, she couldn't bring herself to say.
"To what end?" he said, stiffly. It was clearly taking great effort to keep his voice even and calm.
"To prove that you lied to the parole board about Rachel and to. . . send you back to jail."
His eyes widened and his mouth hung open and he just stared at her—in shock.
"But I made a mistake!" she said, with some urgency. "I realized tonight that it was a horrible mistake!"
"So this whole time, you've been. . . recording me?" His voice sounded pathetic, almost childlike, as he tried to grasp what she was saying.
"Yes, but. . ."
"So none of this was real?"
"No. It started out . . . not real. But something changed. . . And what changed is, I realized that I still. . ."
"I'm a fool," he said, to himself. He was no longer looking at her. His eyes were now fixed on some spot beyond her, on the bathroom wall. "I'm an idiot. I wanted to believe so badly. . ." And then he laughed, a sick, sort of queasy laugh—the laugh of a man who hated himself. "I should've known."
"House," she said, daring to step toward him. "You're not an idiot. I am. I thought I could turn off my feelings for you like some sort of . . . faucet. I thought I could stop loving you . . .But I can't."
"Get out," he said, still not raising his voice. Still not looking at her.
"House, let's talk. I can explain."
"Get OUT," he said, gritting his teeth, his voice a bit louder this time.
"I can fix this. I'll go to the DA. I know I can make this go away."
"GET OUT!" he screamed.
His voice was so loud, the bathroom shook.
"House please," she said, beginning to cry.
Finally, he turned to her, unmoved by her tears.
"You need to get away from me, Cuddy. Right now. I'm a sick, violent man. Right? Isn't that what you think of me? That I'm a killer? A bad man? A man who needs to be behind bars?"
"No, House. . .I don't think that."
She went to touch his hand, but his hand jerked away so violently, it almost caused her to fall back.
"Get out," he repeated. The eerie calm was back in his voice. "Get the fuck out of my house and out of my life, Lisa Cuddy."
She realized there was no talking to him, no reasoning with him, no way she could possibly ever explain herself.
They were standing in the same small room but she had never felt like House was farther away.
"I'm going to fix this," she repeated.
And she left the bathroom as his legs gave out and he slid slowly to the tiled floor.
#####
It was past midnight, but she called Wilson from the car.
"Cuddy?" he said groggily.
His voice was thick with sleep.
"I need you to go over to House's place, now."
"What for? Is he okay? What happened?" He was alert now—it was amazing how quickly a person could wake up when there was a perceived emergency.
"Wilson, I can't explain. I just need you to do this for me. I need you get in your car and drive to House's place and make sure he doesn't do something stupid."
"Okay. . ." Wilson said. She could hear that he had already gotten out of bed, was probably fumbling for his clothing in the dark.
"Thank you," she sighed.
#######
"I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice," Cuddy said, sitting across from DA Oldham, crossing her legs, and smoothing her skirt.
"No problem," he said. "What's on your mind?"
"I want to call off the investigation on Dr. House."
He gave her a curious look.
"You want to call off the investigation that you initiated?"
"Yes."
"What for?"
"Because I realized that justice has already been served and it's time for everyone to move on with their lives."
"The DA's office is not some sort of plaything that you can take out of the toy chest when it suits you, Dr. Cuddy."
"I'm aware of that fact."
"If we close the investigation now, we won't be reopening it."
"That's what I want," she said. "I just want to put this whole thing behind me."
"You're sure?" he said.
"I'm positive."
"Okay, Dr. Cuddy. If that's what you want. The case is officially closed."
"Thank you."
And she heaved a heavy sigh of relief.
She got in her car and headed straight to the hospital.
She couldn't wait to tell House.
He would still be mad, of course, but this would be her first step toward redemption.
#####
The team was eyeing House warily. He was obviously very hungover and in a piss-poor mood. He'd been downright cheerful these past two weeks, when he thought that he and Cuddy were reconciling. Now he seemed edgy, restless, a bit like a caged animal.
In moments like this, he was liable to blow at any moment. In moments like this, he needed to come with a label: Warning: Dangerous When Provoked.
They were saved—or so they thought—by a figure that appeared in the doorway: But it wasn't Cuddy this time. It was a towering man, with immense shoulders, wearing 70s-style cop sunglasses. He was noisily chewing gum.
House saw him, made a face.
"What? Did you take a wrong turn in the year 2006?"
"Good to see you, Dr. House," Tritter said.
"Bad to see you, Tritter," House said. "I think you're in the wrong part of the hospital. The anal leakage department is on the third floor."
"Still a funny guy, I see, Dr. House."
"Still a giant a block of talking wood, I see, Tritter."
"I'm sure they loved all your jokes in prison."
House folded his arms. He still hadn't made the connection.
"What's the matter Tritter? You're upset that I didn't send Christmas cards? When will you finally accept it: I'm just not that into you."
Tritter smirked, in a knowing sort of way.
"You have no idea, do you?"
"No idea of what?"
"I have a warrant here for your arrest."
And he pulled a sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket.
The team gaped at him, then turned back to House.
"What the fuck for?" House said, scanning the warrant.
"For lying to a parole board. We've got all the evidence we need, courtesy of Dr. Lisa Cuddy."
Now House turned white.
"You were working with. . .her?" he choked out.
"She came to me," Tritter said. Which wasn't exactly true. But such a satisfying lie.
House's shoulders slumped. He suddenly seemed very small next to the giant man.
"Put your hands behind your back," Tritter said, pulling out a pair of handcuffs.
"Park, call Foreman," Chase said, standing up. Then he turned to Tritter: "Are handcuffs really necessary?"
"No," Tritter said. "But they're so much fun."
He slapped the cuffs on House and read him his Miranda rights.
Then he paraded the hospital's world-famous diagnostician through the hallways in handcuffs on his way to jail.
######
The minute Cuddy arrived at PPTH, she could tell that something big had happened. The hospital always had a certain buzz when major gossip had gone down.
(She remembered the day she and House had announced they were dating, when he had "told everyone repeatedly." From the ground floor morgue to the top floor research labs—everyone had known, seemingly in an instant. "Finally!" a few nurses had joked. "I thought they'd been together for years," she'd overhead a lab tech say.)
Whatever today's gossip was, she'd find out about that later. She practically ran to House's office to tell him her good news.
But he wasn't there. Instead, Chase, Foreman, Taub and the two new ones were huddled together, deep in conversation, looking concerned.
"Where's House?" she said, interrupting them.
"You haven't heard?" Foreman asked.
"No. . . I sensed the PPTH rumor mill in full effect, but I didn't ask. Is it about House?"
"Remember that cop Tritter? The one who was always on House's ass?"
Cuddy felt her neck turn red.
"Yes," she said. "What about him?"
"About 20 minutes ago, he came in here and arrested House," Foreman said.
"He said it had something to do with you," Chase added.
"No!" Cuddy said. "There's been some sort of mistake!"
And she flew out the door before they could ask her what the hell was going on.
In her car, still out of breath, she called DA Oldham.
"Detective Tritter just arrested House," she barked.
"I know," he said, patiently.
"You told me the case was closed. You told me House wasn't going to be arrested."
"And you neglected to tell me that House admitted he had no idea if your daughter was home that day, on tape."
'That's immaterial. I told you. I don't want to pursue this anymore."
"It's too late," Oldham said. "Tritter pulled an end-around. He went to the assistant DA. It's out of my hands now. House broke the law and he's going back to jail."
"But Tritter is insane!" Cuddy screamed. "This is personal to him! He's got a vendetta. If we can prove that he was acting out of revenge, can we get the charges dropped?"
"Not when we have concrete evidence of Dr. House's wrongdoing."
"But I didn't mean to. . .It was a mistake. . .I. . ."
"I hate to point this out, Dr. Cuddy," Oldham interrupted. "But you were the one who opened this investigation. You were the one wearing a wire. And you are the real reason Dr. House is going back to jail."
######
House sat in the back of Tritter's cop car, his hands in cuffs, looking at the floor. The carpeting hadn't been vacuumed in months. It was filled with lint and cigarette buds. The bullet-proof glass between himself and Tritter was grimy and smudged.
Tritter eyed him in the rear-view mirror, snapping his gum.
"What, no smart comments now?" he said gleefully.
House said nothing.
"You are something else," Tritter said. "You really thought she had forgiven you, didn't you? You really thought she was going to take you back?" He snorted. "You're pathetic," he said.
House continued to look at his feet. He blinked.
"I loved listening to that tape," Tritter said. "Laughing at it. 'I can't get over how beautiful you look.'" He was doing an approximation of House's voice—but as a dopy, lovestruck sap. "'I haven't been this happy in three years.'" He laughed. "And then there was my favorite: Oh. My. God.' That was the best part. That was when I laughed the hardest. You thought all your dreams were coming true, didn't you pal?"
He glanced through the mirror, but House wasn't giving him the satisfaction of any sort of reaction.
"You're going to need to pray to God now, buddy. Not that it will do you any good. I caught you red-handed. Lying to a parole board comes with a six month minimum sentence. Maybe longer."
Once again, he looked at House. Again House was motionless, almost catatonic.
"Still got nothing, huh? No fight left in you? I thought you were made of tougher stuff, House. You're even weaker than I thought."
They had arrived at the jail. Tritter got out, opened the backseat door, roughly grabbed House by the arm and yanked him out of the car. House's head banged against the top of the doorframe.
"Oops," Tritter said. "I forgot to tell you to duck."
#####
"There's a woman here to see you."
Tritter had just gotten back from central booking. He was in a supremely good mood. He was actually whistling.
He looked over at his work station.
There was Lisa Cuddy, sitting in the industrial wooden chair across from his desk, looking gorgeous in a tight short-sleeved sweater and skirt, classing up the joint with her mere presence.
"There's my partner in fighting crime," he said with a smile, sitting down.
"I'm not your partner in anything," she hissed.
"Could've fooled me," Tritter said. "I think together, we took down Dr. House pretty successfully."
"I didn't want to go through with it and you know it," she said.
He shrugged.
"Oh, I knew that, huh?"
"You heard the tape. You knew that I still loved him."
"I heard your excellent undercover work. And some. . .other sounds, too."
He smirked at her.
"If you didn't know that I had changed my mind, why did you go behind Oldham's back to the assistant DA?" she demanded.
He gave a tiny shrug.
"Maybe Oldham told me that you didn't want to pursue the case anymore," he admitted. "But the assistant DA can authorize arrest warrants just as easily."
"You bastard."
"We should be celebrating, Dr. Cuddy. A very bad man is going to be behind bars."
"You're the bad man. A petty, small, vindictive coward."
"Awww, you're hurting my feelings, Dr. Cuddy." Then he grinned. "So I guess this means dinner tonight is out of the question?"
"Fuck you," she said.
"Easy there, gorgeous. I'm still a police officer."
"You're the one who should be behind bars. You're a bully and a creep."
"Why so angry Dr. Cuddy? You must be sexually frustrated after last night," Tritter said. "Let me show you what it's like to be with a real man."
"I think you're threatened by House," she said, looking at him. "I think you're threatened by successful, virile men.
"He didn't seem that virile a few hours ago, when he was crying in the back of my cop car," Tritter said.
"I think you're sexually impotent," she said, not breaking her stare. "I think you have a tiny little penis and you can't get it up and that's why you have to obsess on powerful men like House."
He smiled at her. But it was a dark smile—filled with malevolence.
"Watch it. . .you're treading on dangerous ground here."
A few the other cops were now watching this scene. It seemed volatile.
"You make me sick," Cuddy said.
And then Lisa Cuddy did something she had never done in her entire life—she spat on another human being.
Tritter stared at her, the grin still frozen on his face. The saliva dripped down his cheek. He wiped it off his face with his sleeve.
Then, in one quick move, he made his way to the other side of the desk, roughly grabbed Cuddy from behind, allowing himself the tiniest "accidental" fondle of her ass as he did so, and slapped a pair of handcuffs on her.
"Congratulations, Dr. Cuddy," he said. "You just earned yourself a night in a holding cell."
#####