Jaunt

(a crossover story in 11 drabbles)

Cuddy looked at him across her desk, and her smile drooped a little. “I can’t. God, you 
have no idea how much I want to—but I can’t. I have a hospital to run now; it’s not 
possible to just drop everything and go.”

The little dark-eyed man leaned forward, resting his chin on the red handle of his 
umbrella. “Even if I begged?” he asked in the very tone she remembered luring her away 
the first time. Cuddy bit her lips, struggling with temptation and he kept very still, 
smiling, waiting to see what she decided.

“You win, Doctor.”

House looked up through the glass walls to see Cuddy striding down the hall beside a 
dapper little man in a garish vest. It bothered him—not the vest—but the look on her 
face. Happy, then guilty, then carefree. All the ways she shouldn’t look, especially 
around another man. He lumbered to the door, but too late; they passed by chatting 
softly, ignoring him.

“ . . . Back before you know it,” came the soft Scottish burr. “Like last time.”

“Doctor, last time you left me in Newark with ten gold bullion and a stuffed alligator.”

House frowned.

He watched them turn a corner and held back, not wanting Cuddy to spot him. This was 
one of the Housekeeping corridors, not much used. House listened to the footsteps, 
then counted to ten and peeked around.

Bizarre—he didn’t remember anyone needing a portapotty. A second glance changed 
that. Too rich a blue, too big, too much like a broom closet. He watched the trim little 
man politely usher Cuddy inside then follow her. House’s eyebrows went up. Right. The 
two of them in a broom closet—weird, and from his point of view, NOT permissible.

House lumbered forward.

“Open up, Cuddy, I know you’re in there!” he called, rapping on the door with the 
handle of his cane. An odd vibration carried through the walking stick, and House eyed 
the big blue box suspiciously. Just as suddenly, the door swung open, and the dapper 
man looked out at House, his dark eyes sizing him up in a quick slightly mistrustful 
glance. House tried to look over his shoulder, but the other man held the door to block 
the view.

“Ah, YOU must be House. Lisa—“ he called forlornly over his shoulder. “It seems your 
baggage followed us.”

“You’re not freaking out about this.”

“Of course not. Hallucinations don’t freak me out, per se. I just wish I’d get to the part 
where you’re in a gold chain mail bikini,” House retorted. He expected an eye roll or exasperated sigh from Cuddy and was startled at her guilty expression. The other man 
smiled nostalgically.

“She looked magnificent. Boris Vallejo would have been proud,”

“Please! Metal plates give NO chest support; I won’t even go into chafing!” Cuddy 
muttered grimly. “Besides, I could never keep up with all that waxing.”

House gave a little whimper, “God, pretty please?”

“No.”

Pink planets, vast expanses of inky black space, armies of tentacled aliens, robots. 
House found out that Cuddy swung a mean broadsword, spoke Furling and kept the 
key to the Tardis in some pretty interesting places. She still nagged the hell out of him, 
but somehow bickering while dismantling death rays or smacking flying rats with his 
cane made life much more interesting. The Doctor was a pain in the ass with his 
superior attitude, which unfortunately was backed up by his superior knowledge.

But he had a little room full of medical wonders, and some of THOSE pills—Whoa.

House shook his head, feeling warm and happy. Apparently even Timelords liked to get 
their drink on too once in a while, and kept a very nice private stock to boot. He’d never 
had liquor that glowed in the dark, or that cursed him as he drank it, but life was short.

Hanging around with the Doctor insured that pretty much.

The Doctor had tipped back nearly fifteen shots of something tangerine-colored and 
smoking; House blearily reached for the bottle, but the Timelord shook his head and 
smiled mysteriously. “Wouldn’t advise it, House—this gargle would definitely infarction 
you up.”

Cuddy looked smug, and the Doctor inscrutable; House glanced again at the piled loot 
on the table and couldn’t quite fight the rise of avarice within him. It didn’t help that 
Cuddy was dressed in low-cut black leather. House called.

Pair of aces to Cuddy; no surprise there. The Doctor held a straight to the seven. House 
laid down the Jacks over sixes and raked in the pot, feeling smug. Cuddy sighed. 
Doctor cocked an ear, listening to the far away s

huffle of thousands of Undead feet. He 
shook his head. “Intergalactic zombies—don’t you just hate waiting them out?”

A thump, a bump, a landing. The Doctor was the first one out, looking around and 
blinking, his expression by turns solemn and sweet. House limped out, scowling. His 
cane had zombie teeth marks on it now, and a solid silver handle; all the better to keep vampires at bay. Old world medicine. Cuddy came last, shaking her hair and smoothing 
down her business suit. It smelt of mothballs now, and her deep tan didn’t quite go with 
it.

House turned to the Doctor. “It’s been . . . “

“Unduly dangerous?” The Doctor filled in, dryly.

“--A great hallucination.”

“Still not real. Never happened.”

“A shared delusion, House? A folie aux deux?” Cuddy snorted. House swung up short 
and glared at her.

“More like a ménage a trois. And the guy’s waaaay too old for you. And too short. And 
too impulsive.”

“AND short-tempered and convinced he’s right all the time, and bound by his own moral 
code woe be to anyone unable to deal with that?” she sweetly demanded. “Gee, I don’t 
know anyone else around here remotely like that.” She checked her watch. “We have 
clinic in an hour.”

“Just like that—normal again?”

“Just like that.”

Wilson looked at the man slumped asleep in the office chair and fought an urge to yell. Nobody could be as sluggish as House. The whole damned universe was passing him 
by and he’d sleep though it—miracles happening, battles being won and lost, and Greg 
House was letting it all slip by him, never taking part in the grand mysteries of time and 
space, preferring to snore away here in his little office.

“Leave him be—he had an interesting lunch hour,” Cuddy called from the doorway. 
Wilson turned, catching her eye.

“Yeah?”

“A . . . rough house call,” Cuddy smirked.

END