Dr House and Ally McBeal: Objection, Your Honour!
Rippertish
Chapter 4: The Malpractising Lawyer
A/N: Shoutout to Huddy2024 for those awesome reviews—you're basically the fuel for my late-night, midweek writing chaos. Thanks for the encouragement! :)
Hope you enjoy this one!
The lobby of Cage & Fish bustled with its usual mix of energy and mild chaos. Clients leafed through magazines, attorneys darted from office to office, and the hum of quiet conversations filled the air. House stood near the reception desk, leaning casually on his cane, looking for something—anything—to entertain himself while waiting for Ally. His eyes flicked around the room, landing on a nearby legal pad and a pair of glasses someone had left behind. A sly smile curled his lips.
"Why not," he murmured to himself, grabbing the glasses and perching them on his nose with exaggerated precision. The legal pad in hand, he adjusted his posture to adopt an air of mock professionalism.
Just as he was getting into character, his gaze landed on a middle-aged man sitting stiffly in a chair, clutching a folder and looking around anxiously. House tilted his head, assessing the man like a predator spotting easy prey. He limped over and lowered himself into the chair opposite the client, steepling his fingers as though weighing the importance of the 'case.'
The man glanced up, startled. "Oh, uh… are you the lawyer?"
House offered a slow nod, his face a picture of gravitas. "I am 'a' lawyer," he said cryptically, leaning forward slightly. "Let's hear it. The burden you carry today. Unburden yourself."
The man hesitated but eventually sighed. "It's my neighbour," he began. "Every night, loud music—'80s ballads. It's driving me insane."
House nodded thoughtfully, pulling the pad closer. "Ah, music disputes. A legal minefield. But tell me," he said, adjusting the glasses on his nose, "are we talking power ballads? Big vocals? Slow builds?"
The man blinked. "I… guess?"
House leaned back, a finger tapping his chin. "Alright, let's narrow it down. Are we dealing with Phil Collins heartbreak or Bon Jovi defiance? Because those require very different approaches."
The client stared, clearly confused but compelled to answer. "Uh… Phil Collins?"
"Phil Collins," House repeated, nodding sagely. "A quieter, more soul-crushing pain. Makes sense. So, your neighbour is broadcasting their heartbreak, and now it's seeped into your life like secondhand smoke."
"Secondhand heartbreak?" the man asked, baffled.
"Exactly," House said, leaning forward again. "You're not just hearing their music—you're absorbing their pain. Do you ever wake up humming 'In the Air Tonight'? Be honest."
"No!" the man said quickly. "I just want to sleep. And it's not just Phil Collins. Sometimes there's George Michael and others too."
House raised an eyebrow, feigning deeper concern. "Oh, 'Careless Whisper'? The saxophone of betrayal. A bold move."
The man nodded earnestly. "Yes! It's relentless."
House scribbled something on the pad—nonsense doodles, but he gave them the air of legal notes. "And what about you? Any recent heartbreak of your own? Divorce? Breakup? Abandonment issues tied to childhood trauma?"
"Well… I did get divorced last year…"
"Ah-ha!" House pointed triumphantly. "Cliché Mixtape is merely the trigger. Your real issue is unresolved emotional baggage."
At that moment, Ally entered the lobby, her heels clicking sharply against the tiled floor. She stopped short, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene: House in someone else's glasses, legal pad in hand, interrogating a bewildered potential client. She sighed, walking closer and folding her arms.
For a moment, Ally imagined herself dramatically yanking the legal pad from his hands, and flinging it frisbee-style across the room. The glasses would follow, spiralling into the air in slow motion.
But in reality, she simply closed the distance and plastered on a professional smile.
House caught her approach but continued, undeterred. "What's your plan? A noise complaint? You're not thinking big enough. Think emotional damages. Sleepless nights. The loss of your personal relationship with silence."
The man blinked rapidly, looking more confused than ever. "Wait, is that… a thing?"
"No," Ally said smoothly, stepping in. "But Mr. Pickens, Elaine can guide you to one of our attorneys who specialises in neighbour disputes. She'll ensure your case gets the appropriate attention." Her tone was warm but left no room for debate.
The man stood, clutching his folder. "Oh, okay. Thanks."
Elaine chirped in, "Right this way!" and led the client toward an actual lawyer
As soon as the man was out of earshot, Ally turned to House, arms crossed. "Do you have any idea how illegal it is to give legal advice without a licence, Dr. House?"
Straightening the borrowed glasses with exaggerated flair, he offered. "What do you think? The glasses make me look distinguished, don't they?"
"You're not a lawyer," she reminded him flatly.
House smirked, removing his glasses and tossing them aside. Picking up his cane, he limped lazily after her. "And yet, I just made a stronger case than most attorneys here."
Ally shot him a withering look as they reached her office. She opened the door with a sharp motion, stepping inside and taking her place behind the desk. House followed leisurely, settling into the chair opposite her with an exaggerated sigh. His cane rested casually against the side of the chair, and he leaned back like a man with nowhere else to be.
"Dr. House," Ally began, flipping open her notebook. Her voice was crisp, professional. "Here's how this works: I'm going to ask you a few questions, and you're going to answer them as if you were on the stand. We need to keep it straightforward—no sidetracks."
House raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a lazy smirk. He tapped his fingers rhythmically on the armrest. "Straightforward?" he echoed, tilting his head. "Not even a warm-up? No 'How are you feeling today, Dr. House?' or"—he paused dramatically—"'Did you enjoy ruining my evening the other night?'"
Her pen paused mid-air, and her gaze flicked to him, her brows knitting together. "What are you talking about?"
"Your date," he said smoothly, leaning forward. "Stock-market guy, right? Tall, beige, droning on about diversification strategies. Riveting stuff."
Her cheeks flushed crimson. "You were eavesdropping?"
"You were loud. And desperate." He grinned, folding his hands over his stomach. "Desperation's easy to spot. So, how did it end? Did you both decide romance was too risky an investment?"
Ally's lips thinned as her hand gripped the pen tighter. "We're here to discuss your case, not my personal life," she snapped, her voice clipped. Without waiting for his reply, she launched into her question, using the momentum to wrest control of the conversation.
"Your dad," House interrupted before she could finish. "Dismissive, wasn't he? Distant, maybe even a workaholic. You've been trying to prove you're worthy of his attention ever since." His tone was laced with exaggerated condescension, like a bad impersonation of a therapist.
She stayed silent, her expression unreadable as her pen hovered over the notepad. Her lack of reaction made him pause, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"No," he murmured, his tone shifting. "Not dismissive. Over-loving. That's it." He leaned forward, tapping his cane on the floor. "The guy probably still has your first-grade macaroni art on the wall, every school award framed, right down to your Perfect Attendance Certificate."
Ally's grip on the pen tightened further, and her jaw twitched slightly, though her face remained stoic. A flicker in her eyes, quick but telling, caught House's attention. His smirk widened.
"Jackpot," he said, leaning back triumphantly. "Over-loving Daddy. Explains the overachieving streak. You figured out early that being perfect was the easiest way to get attention. Straight A's, no teenage rebellion—unless you count cutting class to join the debate team. All part of the campaign to stay on that pedestal he put you on."
Her pen hovered uselessly over the notepad as House's words lingered in the air. Over-loving Daddy. Perfect Attendance. Damn him. A slow burn of indignation crept up her neck, settling uncomfortably in her chest.
The most infuriating part wasn't his smirk—it was that he wasn't entirely wrong.
She hated how he managed to slip past her polished armour, just enough to make her wonder what else he might see. Her fingers tightened on the page, flipping it with deliberate calm as if turning the focus back would steady her.
"This isn't therapy, Dr. House. Stick to the case," she said coolly, though the press of her lips betrayed the simmering frustration beneath.
"It's easy to see your type," House continued, ignoring her. "Stable, predictable, 'safe' guys who tick all the boxes. A checklist for men so long, even Santa wouldn't be able to deliver. And those boxes? All built by a man whose idea of romance was probably calling your mom 'dear' during PTA meetings."
Ally exhaled sharply, her cheeks tinged pink. "We're not doing this," she bit out, her tone dangerously low. She delivered another prep question, only to have him steamroll right over it.
"Your love life's a museum of failed candidates." His voice grew almost thoughtful, though the smirk never left his face. "Every date you have starts with the same test: Can he make you feel like Daddy did? Protective but not overbearing. Strong but not controlling. Basically…"—he gestured with his cane in hand—"your dad, minus the DNA issues. Too bad they don't mass-produce men like that."
Her jaw tightened, and she let out a sharp breath through her nose. "Can we move on, Dr. House?"
"Just saying," he replied with a shrug. "Overprotective dads are great—until their daughters try to prove they're not made of glass. Freud could've written a whole chapter on you."
Ally's glare could've melted steel. "Freud would've diagnosed you with a superiority complex."
"Touché," House said with a mock salute. "But at least I'm honest about my neuroses. You, on the other hand—" He gestured vaguely at her. "But don't blame me. Blame Freud. I'm just diagnosing the obvious."
Ally rose abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. Her notepad and pen lay forgotten on the desk as she turned and walked to the door without a word.
At the threshold, she paused, her hand tightening on the doorknob.
A vivid daydream—one of those annoyingly detailed ones—began to take shape: House, lounging back with that smug, infuriating grin. Her jaw locked instinctively, lips pulling back to reveal a full set of teeth in that classic Ally expression of simmering fury. She gave her head a sharp shake, forcing the image away before it could fully take hold. She couldn't stand him in reality; he had no business invading her imagination.
With a frustrated exhale, she yanked the door open, the faint echo of it closing behind her leaving a charged silence in the room.
End of chapter 4