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Chapter Text

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Chapter Text

Fingers focused, House is hunched over his Gameboy Advance SP, brows creased in concentration. He’s been at this level of Metroid for hours and his patience is wearing thin . The same pixeled alien creature that has ended his game the past three times kills him, and he grumbles in frustration. Placing the game down and running a tired hand through his thinning hair, he sighs. Today has been long. His leg has been thrumming with a constant pain that wont seem to quit no matter how much Vicodin he throws at it.

House knows he can’t complain too much though, he’s somehow managed to avoid both the clinic duty he was assigned, and the daily wrath of Cuddy so far.

His mouth upturns at the thought of her striding into his office, angry with the realization that he’s been hiding away at his desk rather than dealing with the next moron's new edition of common cold monthly. Clinic duty has never been his favorite. Public enemy number one to any doctor with half a brain, like him. 

He finds Cuddy cute whenever she gets pissy, and lucky for him, he’s always been good at making her so. Eyes still focused on the flashing Game Over screen on his Gameboy, he drags his pointer finger across his smirking lips. He can’t help it, his mind travels to the various fits of rage he’s witnessed from her. Like just last week, when he ‘ accidentally ’ parked in her parking spot and…

The glass door to his office suddenly flies open, and he suppresses the urge to look up from under his lidded eyes at the interruption. His mind cycles through the possibilities. It’s a constant rotation of idiots at his door and he barely stops himself from outwardly rolling his eyes. Is it Cameron, Foreman, Chase? No, he'd sent the three out on an impossible mission an hour ago. It definitely isn’t Cuddy; he would’ve heard her screaming from down the hall long before she had ever arrived at his door. 

“ Wilson. ” He doesn’t even need to look up to know it’s his best friend and head of the Oncology department. “How nice of you to swing by. I thought you had a lunch date with one of radiology’s new hot nurses?” The snide in his tone is barely hidden, both a teasing and accusatory question. Wilson had blown him off, something that House isn’t exactly used to. House had been forced to eat his usual reuben sandwich alone. 

“It wasn’t a date. It was lunch between two colleagues…” Wilson promptly holds up his hands, as if to stop both his pointless denial and House’s interrogation. “Forget it. Cuddy wants us in her office.”

House leans back in his chair, his hands grasped onto the oversized tennis ball. Blue eyes peer at the man before him as his mind races. “ Both of us? You didn’t tell her about the… mixup…from yesterday, did you?” Less of a mixup, more of a midmeaner. Breaking and entering a patient’s home is never legal, but damn it sure is useful in diagnosing them. 

Wilson rolls his eyes, waving his arm to gesture to House to stand up. “No, I didn’t tell her about your latest threat of a malpractice lawsuit.” 

Dropping the ball on his cluttered desk, House’s hand finds the crook of his cane and grips it as his weight shifts to his feet. He hides the flash of pain to his thigh with a quick grumbling comment. “Whatever she accuses me of, I’m saying you did it.”

Wilson scoffs, looking back at House as he holds the door for him. “As opposed to your usual gracious acceptance and apology when you make a mistake? I think I’ll survive.” 

***

The door to Cuddy’s office creaks open, and she looks up from the stack of patient files in front of her. She’s busy, too busy these days. The last thing she needs is yet another pointless argument with House. “Sit down, both of you.” 

“Ohh. Mommy’s angry.” House scoffs, striding into the room, his cane clicking in step with his sharp sneakers. Wilson trails him, and pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation at the outburst. 

She rolls her eyes, not dignifying House with a comment or glance in his direction. After years of his antics, she's grown more than used to his ambivalence to her role as dean of medicine; his boss. She closes the file and clasps her hands, getting right into it. “As I’m sure you’re both aware, Princeton Plainsboro has been the sponsor of the Central Jersey Golf Tournament for the past ten years.”

Wilson plops down next to House on the small couch, shifting a bit as he adjusts his white lab coat out from underneath him. “Central Jersey Golf Tournament?”

“Surely there must be better uses for hospital funds.” House scoffs, spreading his legs and shifting his weight back to rest further on the cushions. Icy eyes glare at Cuddy, unamused. “Raising the allotment of salary in the Diagnostic Department for example-” 

Cuddy forces a smile on her face. “This is a charity tournament, House. None of the actual hospital funds are used. All proceeds go towards a charity.”

“We’re the sponsors. I’m assuming that means at the very least we pay to have our names on fancy billboard things they stick in the ground at each hole?” House jabs his cane into the carpet, emphasizing the idea of him driving wooden planks into the golf course green.

She sighs, clearly annoyed at having to explain the framework of the tournament to House, who clearly doesn’t care. All he wants is to wriggle around the facts, and poke holes in logic. Least he forget to cry about how he doesn’t have enough staff to do his job for him. “In essence, we are the backbone of the tournament. We provide staffing, and set up the venue. PPTH is also in charge of securing catering, judges, all of that.”

House scoffs, and Wilson bristles. He knows better than anyone when House is rearing for a fight, and Cuddy isn’t one to back down. House massages his bad thigh as his annoyance and pain increases.  “...Which is paid for. How exactly does this not cost the hospital any money?”

“Most of it is donated. Food and such, and volunteers.” Cuddy sorts through the papers on her desk, appearing uninterested in the current conversation. Which she is. She didn’t summon them here to explain the logistics of hospital funding to them. 

“Who the hell would volunteer for a shitty golf tournament?” 

Wilson sighs, throwing his head back in exasperation. House never knows when to quit. “ House. ”

“Most people…” Cuddy responds coolly. “Well, most normal people want to help others. Not that you would understand.” She throws a saccharine smile, all sweetness and no substance. 

Wilson can clearly sense the rising tension between the other two, and jumps in, trying to get to the point. “So we run a golf tournament… that makes us money how?”

“It doesn’t. It gives the hospital better optics. All money made goes to the chosen charity. This year, we’ve partnered with a local cancer research facility.” She gestures towards the oncologist. “Golfers make a donation to enter the tournament, and so do spectators. We also host raffles and such to fundraise. All of that money will go to our chosen charity.”

Wilson nods, impressed. “That’s a really great thing. I had no idea the hospital was involved-”

“People actually pay to play golf? ” House scoffs, his voice snapping harsher than previously.

Cuddy nods, her eyes lingering on House for a few extra moments. She can sense the shift in his attitude, subtle, yet intense. “Yes. Namely golfers. Although not directly involved, many of the pro golfers will play in our tournament as a fun way to practice for the bigger tournaments. We also have prizes that are donated by various corporations.”

“Sounds like fun.” Wilson smiles, looking over to House, whose face darkens. 

“It is.” Cuddy looks back at Wilson. “The board wants a more hands-on advertisement this year, seeing as it's our tenth year as the sponsor.” 

Wilson cocks his head, a few locks of his dark hair shifting on his forehead. “Direct? What can be more direct than hosting the event?”

“The board wants one of our doctors to actually play in the tournament. Since this year is benefitting a cancer charity, I figured who better than our very own Head of Oncology?” She gestures towards the man before her. House rolls his eyes, and wonders what the catch is.

“Me?” Wilson chuckles, in shock. He rubs the back of his neck, a bit awkwardly. “Well, of course. I’d love to. I’m not much of a golfer, though.” 

House abruptly stands, fidgeting with his cane. He’s grown silent, unusual for him. “Great. Can I go now? I actually have things to do-” 

“And you…” Cuddy points at him with a pen, not letting him finish his sentence. “You’re going to be his caddy.”

House freezes, a mixture of annoyance and anger washing over him. “What? No way. Nuh uh. Not happening.”

“When is the tournament?” Wilson asks, tearing his eyes away from House’s mini outburst. 

“Next weekend. It’s a two day event.” Cuddy replies. 

“Damn. I can’t play.” Wilson's face falls, and he shrinks instantly. 

“ What? ”

“I have the cancer conference next weekend. I’m presenting a panel, they’re expecting me.” Wilson sighs, rubbing his forehead. “I’m sorry, Cuddy. You know I would have loved to attend…”

“Don’t even think about it.” House snaps. Wilson looks up and sees that Cuddy’s eyes have moved to the other man, with a slight smile. 

“Oh come on, it’s two days out of work.” She argues. 

“Don’t care.” House grumbles, his jaw set in stone. 

She teases. “No clinic duty for two whole days.” 

“Not interested.” 

“I’ll give you a week off.”

“I don’t take vacations.”

“I’ll lower your clinic duty by twenty hours.”

“In case you haven’t noticed. I’m not exactly the best person to play golf for two days straight.” He gestures towards his leg, his arms outstretched down. “Get someone else. Anyone else.”

She rolls her eyes. “You walk around and swing a club. It’s not exactly strenuous. You’re a big name, House. You’ll draw in the funding.”

“I am not playing golf!” He grits out. 

“Fifty hours?” She counters. 

He takes a few purposeful steps towards her desk. With a clean sweep, he runs his cane across her desk, clearing the piles of paper off it in one fell swoop. He slams his cane down on the barren desk. “In case you’ve forgotten , playing golf is how I got this amazing fashion accessory.”

She freezes, string down at the cane that rests on her desk. With slow movements, she looks up watching as House leans over, glaring at her with labored breaths. She speaks softly, yet sternly, care behind her expression. “It wasn’t because of the golf. You didn’t procure an infarction from teeing off.” 

“I am not playing golf. That’s final.” He leans in closer. 

She doesn't flinch, unafraid of his threats. She’s seen the signs of House’s struggles lately, emotional and otherwise. She wants to help, and genuinely believes that this opportunity may help him. “You are playing golf, or I’m firing your staff.”

“You can’t do that.” 

“I’m the Dean of Medicine, I can do whatever the hell I want.” She stands up, her face dangerously close to his. “Get out.” 

He snatches his cane from off her desk, and barrels through the doors to her office. Wilson stands, frozen. He searches Cuddy’s face for a moment, and only leaves after she nods her head towards the doors; a silent signal for him to smooth things over with House. 

***

 “House wait.”  Wilson shuffles past a group of employees, nearly crashing into the male nurse before he catches up to House. He slows his stride, and walks beside him, and takes a deep breath. “Listen, I know this is hard for you.”

“Save it. Not interested in whatever the hell you have to say.” He jabs the elevator button twice, avoiding eye contact with Wilson. 

“I’m just trying to help.”

The elevator arrives, and House walks in. “ Trying being the key word.” 

Wilson follows him, his elbow clipping the closing door. “Don’t do that. Do you have to be so-.”

“So, what? Rightfully angry?”  He glares at Wilson, before jamming the tip of his cane onto the second floor button. “None of you could possibly understand what I went through. The hell I endured and continue to endure every damn day !” 

Wilson goes silent as the doors shut. The gentle hum of the elevator reverberates for a few seconds before he manages to speak. “I’m not saying I understand, but I sympathize.”

“I don’t want your sympathy.” House grunts back as the elevator door opens, and he resumes the walk to his office. Wilson has always been too emotional, too sentimental for him. It pisses him off to no end, especially now, when the other man is way out of his depth.  

Wilson takes a few elongated steps and barricades House from walking any further; earning him an eyeroll. “Listen, House. It’s a tournament. There’s going to be multiple rounds, right? Just play badly and get eliminated as soon as you can.”

“That’s not the point. House scoffs, pushing past him and heading towards his office. “Why don’t I go to your stupid oncology thing instead?”

“They’re expecting the Head of Oncology, not a Diagnostician.” Wilson counters.

House calls back over his shoulder. “Trust me, it’ll be an upgrade.” 

Wilson stands in silence as he watches House maneuver back behind his desk and into his chair. House is stubborn, Wilson knows that better than most, but he’s never seen him so… frustrated. The memories of the day of his infarction no doubt are running through his mind. The moment he was struck with intense pain was on the golf course, after all. “I’ll talk to Cuddy, see if she can’t find someone else to play for you.” 

He nods, rubbing his leg as he sits in his seat. “Thanks.” 

***

“I am not paying to play golf .” Happy crosses his arms, leaning against the golden door of his Plymouth Duster. He crumples up the sunbleached poster that Chubbs, his mentor, had handed him just moments before. ‘Central Jersey Charity Golf Tournament?’ He has better things to do with his time, the Rangers and the Penguins are playing this weekend. “In case you’ve forgotten, the whole point of me playing this shitty sport in the first place is so I can earn money, not spend it.”

“Trust me, I haven’t forgotten.” Chubbs rolls his eyes, fixing the brim of his cap with his good hand. “It’s a small entry fee, but the grand prize is four thousand dollars.”

That catches Happy’s attention. He squints and cocks his head, looking at Chubbs. “Four thousand dollars? What’s the catch?”

Chubbs laughs, and shrugs. “No catch. It’s a charity tournament in New Jersey.”

“Ahh. There’s the catch. I have to go to New Jersey?” He shakes his head. It’s called the armpit of America for a reason; anyone from the Tri-State area knows the state sucks. 

“Golf is golf, no matter where you play it. Plus, I heard Shooter McGavin will be there.” Chubbs pokes his wooden hand lightly into the crook of Happy’s arm. 

Happy laughs, the gold and black of his Boston Bruins jersey shimmering under the summer sun. “Shooters driving all the way out to New Jersey for some crappy charity tournament? Is he that desperate?”

“It’s all about optics. Sponsors, fans. It’s a good way to keep your momentum going in between tourneys.” Chubb’s counters. 

Happy sighs, pinching his eyes shut as he stares off into the bright blue sky. Four thousand dollars and an opportunity to beat McGavin? He should be jumping at the opportunity. Grandma's house isn’t getting any cheaper, and McGavin isn’t becoming any less of a jackass. “Fine, fine. Let’s go wipe McGavin’s ass off the Garden State’s green.”

Chapter Text

Martini in hand, Shooter McGavin sits at the bar of the shitty New Jersey hotel. He arrived earlier this morning, with just two days until the charity tournament, he couldn’t take any chances being late. Appearances are everything, and being late would do nothing favorable for him, in terms of the public eye. Especially not when Gilmore has been gaining fans, albeit, uncultured, uneducated enemies of golf. 

Brown curls cascading over his forehead, he grips the table with one hand as he stares blankly at the television perched over the back bar. Images of his latest win reflect through the half empty bottles of liquor like kaleidoscopes. 

He should be anywhere but here. Lounging at some fancy Country Club that actually knows how to make a proper drink, as opposed to the watery garbage he’d been presented with. When his agent encouraged him to attend this charity tournament, he’d been promised a presidential suite, room service, and hundreds of fans at his feet. None of that has been delivered on, not that he is particularly shocked. Real estate acquisition is a hobby of his, and he happens to know that the owner has defaulted on the past three tax payments; this hotel will be on the market sooner rather than later. 

Fans are hard to come by at these charity tournaments. Although this event has been going on for nine… ten years now, it isn’t an official stop on the tour. Only the most dedicated enthusiasts tend to show up, and those who do tend to be interested in the cause more than the sport, something which Shooter absolutely despises.

Yes, charity is great . A wonderful thing, but it has no place in golf. Shooter grinds his jaw as he mulls over the situation, the stray vein in his forehead rising. He’s done his fair share of charity work, donations, even visited the sick when encouraged by his agent; but at the end of the day, none of it needs to involve him. Why detract from the sanctity of golf? Golf is clean, quiet, elegant. Sophisticated . He takes another long sip of his drink, letting the smooth liquor pass between his teeth. 

Swirling the nearly empty glass between his fingers, he gestures towards the bartender, who is busy wiping freshly washed glasses with a less than clean dishrag. Understanding his request, the gentleman bends down and gets to work on another drink.

Shooter sighs, chewing at the calloused skin around his fingers as he watches the painfully slow movements of the other man. “Ready for the tournament, Mr. McGavin?”

Shooter flashes a quick smile, his eyes not leaving the liquor being poured. “Always ready.”

The bartender looks down towards the drink, with practiced hands, he quickly finishes up the martini. “I heard Happy Gilmore is playing, too. Seems like he’s been getting real good.” The glass clinking against the dark, well worn wood grain of the bar. 

Shooter’s smile fades as the bartender turns around. Stupid Gilmore, stupid charity tour. Just give me my check and let me leave. He hunches over further, his suitcoat jacket growing taut against his shoulder blades. 

This is going to be a long weekend. 

***

Wilson plucks a file from the stack that sits on the top of the clinic nurse’s station. His white coat swishes as he turns around and follows House, who is pacing around the clinic, cane slamming against the ground. “I tried , House. I really did.”

House pauses, hooking his cane onto the top of the desk, turning to look at Wilson. It is infuriating, at times, how passive he can be. He’s so concerned with not stepping on anyone’s toes, why did he even think it was a good idea to have his best friend talk to Cuddy in the first place? He’d get more results by barrelling into her office and making a scene like usual. “Ever watched Star Wars? ‘Do or do not, there is no try.’” He sneers, reaching into his pocket and popping a fresh Vicodin for the aggravation. “I told you to tell her I wasn’t coming.” 

Beneath the layer of annoyance, Wilson fishes for the words that struggle to come to the surface.  “I asked her if she found anyone else yet.” 

“There’s your problem… you asked when you were supposed to tell.” House flips through a few stray files, each case more boring than the last. Two hours of clinic duty to go before he can clock out and nurse a bottle of whiskey alone on his couch.

Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand, the other perched on his hip. “She’s the Dean of Medicine. I’m not bossing around my boss .”

Looking around for a few moments, House confirms the lack of eyes on him. “You won’t boss around anyone . Then you get pissy when you get walked all over.” House snatches his cane from the desk, turning and making his way towards the clinic doors. 

“Oh, I’m the problem here?” Wilson follows him, and House mentally curses him for drawing attention to his nearly clean getaway. “Not you, who refuses to get paid to play golf?”

“I am not playing golf just because Cuddy wants me to.”  House locks eyes with a wayward nurse, who’s turned to watch the confrontation. So much for escaping clinic duty today.

“No, instead you’d rather walk around the hospital playing mental chess with her.” Wilson walks up to him, raising his voice just a tad, enough to make House uncomfortable, earning him a glare from the taller man. “Just play in the damn tournament, it won’t kill you. ”

Another body nears him, and House doesn’t break concentration, his eyes burning a hole into the side of Wilson’s head. “Doctor House, there’s a patient waiting for you in room three.” The nurse extends her arm, another red folder in her hand as she looks up at him with almost fearful eyes. 

Snatching the folder from her between his index and thumb, House acts as if just touching the thing will infect him with a horrible disease. With his arm fully extended, he swings the file squarely into Wilson’s chest, who emits a soft oof as it makes contact with him. “Wilson’s got this one.” 

Shaking her head, the nurse points directly at House. “The patient is to be seen by you specifically.” 

House scoffs, waving the folder. “This is a free clinic. They don’t get special pick." 

“Cuddy’s orders.” She says, inching backwards, towards the nurses station.

***

Trailing into the small exam room, House hooks his cane over his forearm and takes a few careful steps towards the stool in the corner of the room. He plops down, and flips open the file as he plops down, his leg thanking him for the relief. “Right, Mr. Mike Mexas…” 

“Howdy y’all.” The middle aged man sits on the examination table, his cheery face not dimmed by whatever ailment brought him here. His voice is smothered in a country twang, one foreign to the east coast. 

Y’all? Cocking his eyebrow, House turns around quickly. Had he forgotten to shut the door behind him? Had Wilson seriously followed him in to make sure he was treating the patient Cuddy stuck on him? His body twists, head looking around for a few moments. He isn’t meant with the oncologist oaf, but instead emptiness. No, he is alone. Suppressing an eye roll, House turns his attention back towards the file. “Mr. Mexas. From Texas, I presume?”

“That’s wrong.” The man frowns, shaking his head solemnly. “Born and raised right here, in the U S of A.” 

“Uh huh. So Mr. Mexas, what brings you to the wonderful free clinic of Princeton, New Jersey?” House fakes a smile, crossing his hands impatiently over his lap. Of course Cuddy sticks the crazy guy on him. She’ll do anything except make his life easy. 

“Well Doc, it’s bad. Real bad.” The man removes his brightly colored cap and places it across his heart, as if in mourning. “My swing, my putt, it’s not what it used to be. I need to get my game back in the next two days .”

Two days. The tournament. House’s face steels, his eyelids growing tired immediately. He should have known that Cuddy wouldn’t stick a random patient on him, no. She always has an agenda. Right now her agenda is getting House to go to the stupid god damn tournament. 

“I gather you’re in town for the golf tournament then?” House says flatly, already knowing the answer. He flips through the man’s files, bored. Nothing out of the ordinary, or even interesting. 

The man nods, his cap placed firmly back on his shiny head and his hands clasping his kneecaps. “Yes, sir…Traveled all the way to New Jersey just to play, but my body isn’t what it used to be. My knees crack, my back aches. Can ya fix me up, Doc?”

Two blue eyes trail up from the paper in front of him to the man. He’s aging, nearly 65, and not in great shape. “Have you considered not playing golf?”

“Golf is my life. You see this right here?” He points to a thin scar on his exposed shin. “That right there is from my first ever time holding a club, when I was just a boy.”

House scoffs. “My leg scar would beat your leg scar in a game of darts even if it was drunk and blindfolded.” House looks up, impatient. His good leg bounces up and down as he fights the urge to leave already. “Do you have any other symptoms besides creaking bones?” 

“I have these.” He rolls up his tight sleeve, exposing the odd bruise. Occupational hazard, most likely, although House can’t imagine the man has a life outside of the sport. The man sighs, looking up with wide, pleading eyes. “You gotta fix me up so I can win the tournament.”

House returns his gaze to the file, already mentally tapped out of the conversation. There’s nothing for him to diagnose, let alone cure. “There is no cure for aging or being bad at golf.” Speaking coolly, he doesn’t bother to look up from the file.  “Lay off the Krispy Kreme’s and you’ll be fine.” He stands, his cane tapping against the linoleum as he crosses the room and exits, but not before the patient calls out to him. 

“See ya at the tournament!”

Yeah, definitely. His shoulder connects with the door as he barrels through, slamming the file on the desk as he exits the clinic and walks across the hall into Cuddy’s office. 

“I’m on the phone.” Cuddy looks up, covering the mouthpiece with her hand. 

House clears his throat, speaking louder than usual to ensure his voice reaches the other end of the phone. “Why, yes Doctor Cuddy , I am ready for my prostate exam .” He annunciates the last two words, his verbiage reverberating through her pristine office. 

 “You have issues .” She slams the phone down immediately. “What’s the problem now , House?”

House scoffs, taking a few steps towards Cuddy’s desk. “You seriously found a random golfer and, what, paid him off to come to the clinic?” His hands sit on her desk, splayed as he leans forward, his eyes critical. “Just to annoy me?”

Rolling her eyes and wrapping her finger around the coiled phone cord, Cuddy sighs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You gave me a golfer .” The words are almost a poison on his tongue, he spits them out, gesturing across the hall towards the clinic. 

“He needed medical attention, and you’re our best doctor.” Cuddy stands, making herself busy with organizing various unimportant items on the bookshelf behind her desk. She takes a deep breath and mentally prepares herself for the impending argument with House as she peers through the slats of her blinds. The hospital courtyard looked so peaceful, with the early spring sun warming the grass. 

House scoffs, moving to stand beside her. His face is curled in pure anger, his voice raising once more. How many times would he have to say it for her to listen? Does she not think he’s serious? “For the fifteenth time, I am not-”

“Playing golf. I know.” She snaps, her shoulders dropping as she exhales. “Listen, House, I know you’re unhappy with this whole thing.”

House looks expectantly. “So you’ve found someone else?”

“No. I told you and Wilson already, there is no one else.” Cuddy turns around, looking up at House. She’s not afraid of him, even in this state. She’s never been one to shy away from him, or anyone really.  “I’m really not supposed to do this, but I’ve reserved a room for you in the hotel. It’s nothing insane, but you’ll get room service, and limited access to the bar. You can check in tomorrow.” 

Did she really think that putting him up in the crappy hotel would change anything? As if he could be won over with a few poorly made drinks and microwaved room service dinners. It’s not like the hotel is fancy. It's a fifty room hotel on the property of the golf course. There’d be events there throughout the weekend, not to mention the Charity Gala at the end of the Tournament. Just another thing for House to look forward to. “ Ooh goody . I get a free room in a shitty hotel in exchange for making an ass out of myself in front of hundreds of people.”

“I’m trying to be an adult here. You’re making this impossible...” Silence stretches between them, both minds swirling as they debate internally. “Wilson would appreciate it.” She adds quietly.

This breaks him. Like it or not, House is the biggest name the hospital has. Both his reputation as the infallible diagnostician, and his famous bedside personality has spread his name across the city like wildfire. He would draw in the most crowds, and thus, the most money raised for the oncology department. House shoves his hand in the front pocket of his blazer. “I want my clinic hours reduced by one hundred.”

“Fifty.” She counters. 

“Seventy five.” 

He grunts, stalking out of her office to think.

Chapter Text

Midday, Friday, time is ticking. Time until the day is over, until the weekend, until the tournament. Sitting back in his chair, House grips the bottom of his cane, balancing his oversized tennis ball in the crook of the handle. He watches as swirls of red and white blur in his vision as he tosses the ball up a few times, juggling it with the curved handle. 

This whole situation is ridiculous . Regardless of his past, and the fact that his infarction struck while he was on a golf course, why does the board need someone to play in the tournament? Is it not enough to host the event, the name of the hospital plastered on every tablecloth and billboard? Two days on the course, trying not to look like a complete idiot bumbling around the golf course with a bum leg is just too much.

He’d survive, but it would be hell without Wilson to keep him company. Will he be completely alone on the course? He flips the ball up, catching it and cradling it in the crook. Will Cuddy be at the event? Undoubtedly . She’ll most likely be schmoozing it up with donors and members of the board. His team will be stuck at the hospital, covering his absence. Maybe they’d get a difficult case over the weekend, and he’d get an excuse to ditch the tournament for actual important work. 

He tosses the ball up again, moving to catch it but missing. The ball drops lamely, bouncing a tiny hop and rolling just a tad out of reach before resting in place. House stretches, and pulls the ball nearer with his cane. He stares down at the ball, which has settled between his sneakers, not moving to pick it up. His mind works quietly, his eyebrows furrowing at the sight of the handle of his cane pushing the ball around. He rises from his chair, cursing quietly as he steadies himself against the wave of pain that flourishes beneath the scar on his thigh. His hands move mindlessly to his pocket, fishing out the worn orange pill bottle and dryswallowing a Vicodin. 

Taking a stilted step forward, his left hand on his desk as he looms over the ball, he spreads his legs slightly. Gripping the end of his cane with both hands, just beneath the rubber tip, he bends over a bit. With a slow and careful swing, he rears his cane up, before swinging it forward, and hitting the ball. It shoots forward, knocking into the skeletal model that stands in the corner of the room; rib bones clattering against one another post impact.

A soft smirk pulls at the corner of House’s mouth, his five o’clock shadow shifting at the unexpected expression. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be such a horrible thing. A free hotel room, and access to the bar? At the very least he could get his share of alcohol. Plus, Cuddy would definitely owe him in the future, it never hurts to have the Dean of Medicine owe you favors. 

He isn’t exactly a golf fan , however he keeps up with the sport on occasion. Mostly through stray news clips he catches on the break room TV’s, or the odd sports commentator on the radio that he hears on his way to work. The tristate area is always golf crazy this time of year; the Pro Tour takes place all over the country, but many of the matches happen here, on the east coast. It's hard to avoid, especially this year, when anyone who's anyone has been talking about the unconventional players. 

What was his name? Merry? No. Happy. Happy Gilmore. Yes, the newcomer who punched Bob Barker live on television during the Pro-Am. How many times had House heard about his unconventional play style in the past week? Too many to count. The tantrums he threw on the green, the sweatpants he wore to each game, his uncouth language. The news has been eating it up, reporting almost constantly on the guy, and the storm he’s taken the sport by. Would he be there, at the charity tournament? The thought alone makes House chuckle. Imagine Cuddy having to deal with the antics of a crazed man from Connecticut? Especially after all the work she’s put into setting up the event?

No, this wouldn’t be bad at all. House smirks, knowing he would hardly be the focus of the tournament if Happy Gilmore is in attendance, which is more likely than not. Anyone who’s anyone would be in attendance, fighting for a bit of extra prize money and attention from fans and the media alike. Happy would make a fool out of Cuddy for him, especially if he snaps mid tournament. God only knows what he could do… smash something? Start cursing with the backdrop reading ‘Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital? ”

It would be perfect. Not all publicity is good publicity. He could see the downfall first hand. Maybe, for once, House wouldn’t be the bad guy to Cuddy. 

Without the need to knock, he enters the stream of the hallway and walks past his conference room next door. Pausing at the next door for a split second, he straightens up and pushes the door to Wilson’s office open, a contrived smile hiding weakly beneath the surface. “What time is your flight?”

Wilson doesn't even bother to look up, used to the way House would barge into his office with no expectation of privacy. “Eight tonight. It’s a redeye. Why?”

“Great. I’ll drive you.” House says, slipping into the seat in front of the other man’s desk.  

“No.” Wilson holds up his hand, his pen falling, forgotten, onto the stack of papers before him. “You never do anything nice for me without a catch.”

“ So ?” House scoffs.

“So…”  Wilson waves his hands around, beckoning House to continue. “What's the catch?”

House’s chin rests on the top of his cane, he sighs, his eyes flicking up towards Wilson. “I need you to come shopping with me.” He clenches his lids shut, hating the words that come out of his mouth next. “For golf shoes and… all that crap.”

Wilson laughs, his hands threading through his hair and landing on either side of his head in shock. He stands, his palms gesturing wildly at House, who sits unamused. “You actually agreed? You’re going ?”

“Whether or not I agreed had little effect on if I actually ended up going. Cuddy would’ve made sure of it.”

“That’s a load of crap.” Wilson’s hand lands on his hip as he paces a few steps, as if trying to come to terms with what he’s hearing. His other hand resting near his lips, hiding the amused toothy grin he’s sporting. “You never let anyone tell you what to do, let alone Cuddy. If you really didn’t want to do it, you’d flee the state.” Wilson stops and faces House, his eyes crinkling in thought. “Something changed.”

House cocks his head, playing dumb. He couldn’t tell Wilson that the reason behind his change of heart was less than innocent. How could he turn down an opportunity to watch Cuddy get made a fool? “No, nothing.”

Wilson continues to laugh, walking closer to House and wagging his finger accusatorily. “No, I know you. You never change your mind just because. ”

“Fine, I guess I thought that maybe I needed a change.” He sighs, flashing his blue eyes at the other man, batting them innocently. “Is that a good enough reason for you, boy wonder?”

Wilson shrugs, seemingly happy enough with the bullshit response House just carefully curated. 

“See you at four.” House smirks, standing up.

“Make that three, I don’t want to miss my flight.”

***

“I feel ridiculous.”

Wilson frowns, holding up a pair of gray leather golf gloves. “Why? These aren't so bad.”

House sighs, looking down at the pile of crap which has accumulated in the small handbasket Wilson is holding. “Do I really need all this stuff? I feel like a poser.”

Wilson looks up at House, a small frown on his face. “Why?”

“I’m not a golfer. I don’t want to be a golfer. Walking onto the course with all this new equipment and no skill makes me look-”

“Prepared. You’ll fit in with the rest of the competitors.” Wilson counters, his eyes moving over the rack of gloves in front of them. With a careful eye, he slowly runs his fingertips along the pairs of limp empty fingers. “If you show up in your usual unwashed t-shirt you’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

House shrugs, rummaging through the basket. Golf shoes, a bag of spare tees, a golf shirt, and now gloves. His eyes linger on the cane in his hand.  “Pretty sure I’ll stick out regardless.”

House and Wilson continue to meander around the golf section of the sports store in silence, feet crunching on the faux grass beneath their feet. The aisles are mostly empty, a few stragglers browse the shelves. As they make their way towards the section of golf clubs, House’s eyes catch towards the small flatscreen TV mounted to the wall. 

The newscaster sits with a recap of the recent golf tournament rolling behind him. Footage of the latest match in the tournament; the celebrity match. His voice is clear and articulate as he fights a smirk and fixes his slicked back hair.  “Bob Barker had an unexpected twist to his match today, when up and coming golf star Happy Gilmore threw more than just the game. That’s correct, alongside his abysmal display of skill this round, Happy Gilmore attacked the Price is Right star.”  The footage is enlarged, showing the younger, hockey jersey wearing Gilmore rolling down the green, entangled with Barker, punches being thrown. “The best part is? He got his butt kicked live on national television by someone three times his age!”

Wilson’s face falls, his eyebrows curved into weary arches. “I don’t think you have to worry about being the laughing stock.” A beat of silence passes, before Wilson snorts, and continues. “Maybe if you piss him off he could knock you out for the weekend.”

House smirks slightly at that, his hand gripping his cane a little tighter. “Oh please, as if he’d ever get close enough.” House swings his cane towards the other man’s calves, lightly hitting him. “I’ve got a long range weapon, remember?”

“Pretty sure clubs outrank canes.” Wilson counters, the two begin walking over to the section of clubs and golf bags in the corner of the store. 

“Touché.” 

“Okay, now, onto clubs.”

“Don’t bother. I still have my old ones in my closet.” House grumbles, nodding his head towards the wall of bags. “I just need a carry bag.”

They arrive at the wall of various golf bags. Some big, others small. Some with wheels, handles, straps, all different shapes and sizes. 

“What about this one?” Wilson pauses in front of a large golf bag with wheels. Pushing it a few times to get a feel for it, he bends down to further examine it. 

“No, that's too heavy for a caddie to carry.” House walks further down the wall, “We need this type, a Sunday bag.” House pauses at some of the lightweight bags, looking them over with a careful eye. 

The black an white bag that sits at the end of the line immediately catches his eye, and he speeds up a bit to go look at it. Wilson , the brand name written in fancy dark lettering, bold against the pristine cream colored background. “This is the one.”

Wilson turns and blinks slowly, his eyes slowly taking in his own last name written on the golf bag. 

“Now you’ll be at the tournament with me, whether you like it or not.”

Wilson rolls his eyes, grabbing the basket and patting House on the back. “Alright, hotshot. Let’s check out and get to the airport before I miss my flight.”

“Maybe that was my plan all along.” House smirks, slinging the bag over his shoulder. 

“Very funny.”

The drive to the airport is mostly silent, save for the occasional shimmying of golf equipment and luggage in the back of House’s Dodge Dynasty. Soon enough, they arrive at the front of the terminal, the car pulling in smoothly to the unloading zone.

Wilson hops out, quickly grabbing his bags from the trunk and slamming it shut. Making his way back towards the front of the car, he leans against the open window, staring in at House. “I’m going to try and leave as early as possible, so I can take your place in the tournament.”

“Yeah, yeah. I won’t hold my breath.”

“Just remember to have fun, alright?” 

House’s mind flicks back towards the concocted idea of a golf tournament gone awry; Cuddy being made an absolute fool by a combination of House’s inability to play golf, and Gilmore trashing the course. God, it would be perfect. “Oh, I will.” 

  Wilson pats the side of the car before stepping away and into the terminal. House’s eyes track him as he struggles to get his luggage through the heavy doors, and until he’s obscured from sight. 

***

Virginia paces around nervously, straightening the tablecloth for the fifteenth time as she waits for the golfers to start arriving for the Q and A panel. The bar has all but shut down, and in the few hours she’s had to prepare, she spent most of the time setting up the table on the small stage for the golfers to sit at. 

Being the Public Relations Director for the tour has never been a particularly easy job; golfers tend to get themselves into trouble more than you’d imagine. Things have changed this year. Happy Gilmore has changed things in ways she previously thought unimaginable.

The Charity Tournament has been a long standing, unofficial leg of the tour. It's one of the few opportunities that the golfers have to interact directly with the community, and give back to worthy causes. The charity of the tournament changes yearly, but is always related to some medical related field. The host of the tournament is a hospital, after all, it only makes sense. 

Tonight is an opportunity for the golfers to speak on the importance of giving back to the community, and of course to garner more attention and hype for the tour. Both are very important aspects to cement the media presence for the next coming weeks. Golf is touch and go; fans will flock to it, but the average viewer will turn the channel without a second thought. Virginia narrows her eyes as she takes a few steps back, examining the table with her finger curled against her lip. She knows just how important a night like tonight can be for the tour as a whole, and the pressure is squarely on her shoulders. 

“Looking good so far.” 

She jolts out of her inner thoughts, looking up to see Doug Thompson, Commissioner of the entire pro tour, standing on the floor beneath her. Arms crossed and brow raised in approval. “Oh, thanks. Now we just need the stars of the show.” She hops down off the stage, admiring her handiwork from the ground level only after dusting her pleated pants off. 

“Have you seen the Rep from Princeton Plainsboro yet? I thought she was going to arrive earlier today to help you set up.”

“Unfortunately she had an unavoidable conflict. She won’t be arriving until early tomorrow.”

Doig frowns. The partnership between Princeton Plainsboro and the tour is one that they love to show off, especially at an event like this. “That’s a shame… you’ve got this under control?”

Virginia nods, confident. She takes a moment to breeze through her notes, reading each carefully outlined step she had written down. Nothing could go amiss during this Q and A, especially not if it’s being televised. Her eyes linger on the small camera setup in the back of the room, near the bar. “Absolutely. We’ll take a few questions, let the golfers talk a bit about the cancer charity, and wrap it up for the night.” Closing her notebook and placing her pen behind her ear, she straightens her blouse. “I like to think of this as the appetizer for the main course.”

“The main course?” Doug questions, his hands finding their way towards the front pockets of his pants. 

“The tournament, of course.” Virginia smirks.

“Ah.”

“We have the post tournament gala as dessert, and that’s it. The main road to the Pro Tour is back on track.”

Doug nods, looking around with a focused expression. “I have to run, lots of last minute setup for tomorrow morning.”

She nods, moving to begin pushing in stray chairs and tidying the place. It’s a dive bar in a small hotel, there's only so much she can do to spiff up the area in the limited amount of time she has. Not much of this will be caught on camera anyway, the focus of the night will be up on the stage; the golfers. “Of course, I’ll catch up with you later.“

The time seems to pass too quickly and yet not fast enough. Too much to do and yet not enough time to do it. Straighten the tables, and put donation brochures on each of the tables. Specialty cocktail menus, personalized Princeton Plainsboro napkins, setting up the microphone so the audience can ask questions… The microphone! She quickly grabs the heavy stand and begins to awkwardly attempt to shuffle it into the empty spot on the floor, just in front of the stage.

“Hey, let me help you with that.” A nasally voice breaks the silence, and after a few thumps of shoes against the hardwood floor, Virginia can breathe again. The weight is lifted from her grip, and she exhales deeply.

“Happy! Oh gosh, is it that time already?” 

Happy shrugs, tightening his jaw as he slowly maneuvers the metal stand into position, before letting it rest. “I’m a little early, but I figured you might need the help of a big, strong hockey player like me.” He grins, leaning against the lip of the small stage. 

“Golfer.”  She corrects. 

Crossing his arms and letting out a tiny snort, he grins. Although he is reluctant to ever stoop down to call himself a golfer, he mostly refuses to do so in order to push Virginia’s buttons. “Do you want my help or not?” 

She laughs, a quiet chuckle as all the tension seems to leave her body immediately. “Yes, yes I’d like your help.” 

The two work together to finish setting up the room, and after a bit more hard work, Happy claps his hands, satisfied. Each table is set with the necessary papers, every chair pushed in. Happy has never been one for these types of events; he’d much rather show his skills on the course than sit around and blow smoke out of his ass for a half hour. Chubbs emphasized how important this talk was both for the tour and for his own image, something he could honestly care less about. In this world, he is a minnow in a school of barracudas. Golf isn’t his forte, dressing up in goofy pants and collard shirts is not exactly his cup of tea. If it was solely for him, Happy wouldn’t have even bothered to show up. The thought of disappointing Virginia is another story altogether. 

“So who else is going to be here?”

Virginia flips back through the notepad clutched close to her chest. “Well, Lafferty should be here, but last I saw he hadn't checked into the hotel yet. McGavin…”

Happy groans, throwing his head back. “ Seriously? Shooter McGavin?”

“Like it or not, he’s the biggest face on the tour right now.” 

Happy scoffs. “Why, because his head is so big? No one likes that guy. He sucks all the oxygen out of the room just by existing.”

“He’s not that bad.”

“He is too!” Happy points his pointer fingers at Virginia, thumbs up to the sky. He makes various explosion noises with his mouth, his spit flying everywhere. Mocking Shooter is too easy, especially when he practically does the job himself. Walking around with his ridiculous finger guns and acting like he owns the damn place. Virginia rolls her eyes as she turns around, taking a phone call on her small flip phone. 

“Terrible form, Gilmore . If you’re going to impersonate the greats , you might as well do it right.” Shooter leans against the archway, arms across his chest as he smirks sardonically. He raises his hand, aiming it squarely at Happy’s forehead, and takes aim, blowing the invisible gunsmoke off his middle finger. “Where’s everyone else?”

Virginia slams her phone shut, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Apparently there’s standstill traffic on the highway. It looks like it’ll just be you two.”

Shooter scoffs, strutting forward until he’s nearly chest to chest with Happy. “How am I supposed to look desirable when I’m sitting next to this moron?”

“Hey, I have an idea. Why don't you just shut the hell up, McGavin?” Happy takes a step forward, looking up. Jaw set in stone and unafraid, he leans forward. “No one cares what you have to say, anyway. It’s all horseshit.”

“That’s rich, coming from you. Remind me again the last time you were interviewed? Was it before or after you attempted to kill Bob Barker?” 

“Suck my ass! He had it coming to him!” Happy jabs his finger into Shooters chest. 

Shooter scoffs, holding up his hands and taking a step back. All talk, and no fight, that's how he operates. “And I’m sure the distinguished donors this evening will be more than understanding of that fact. Please make sure you recount the moment you realized an eighty year old was successfully beating the piss out of you as they sign their checks for cancer research.” He turns around, slowly climbing the stairs up to the stage. 

“I should beat the piss out of you.”

McGavin laughs, a deep obnoxious laugh. He peers down at Gilmore from the added height of being on stage. “I’d love to see you try. You’d be kicked off the tour for sure.”

“Boys!” Virginia steps between them, holding out her hands. “Please, try to get along? This is important for both the pro tour and fundraising.” 

“He started it.” Happy scowls.

“I believe you started it the moment you brought your dumbass hockey jersey on to the green.” Shooter counters. 

Virginia rolls her eyes, grabbing her things and heading towards the stage. “Get it all out now. Once those cameras roll I want nothing but friendly rivalry.”

“Jackass.” 

“Dickhead.” Happy fires back. 

“ Enough. ”

Shooter sits down at the table, arms clasped in front of him. The beige suit he’s wearing contrasts heavily with Happy’s flannel over t-shirt ensemble. This is Shooter’s element. He’s always been someone who can turn up the charm, flash his pearly whites and coax the audience into loving him. He always seems to know exactly what to say, which notes to touch on to become the darling of any event. Happy? Not so much, and he knows it. Taking his seat and inching a bit further away from Shooter, he can’t help but look down at his hands, almost awkwardly. He’s never had to be anyone other than himself, and he isn’t about to start putting on some faux bullshit. 

Happy hunches over, his arms leaning heaving on the table. As fans and reporters start to stroll into the bar, he can’t help but take in the wide variety of people in attendance, much different than the previous tournaments. There are stuck up snobs of course, but also regular people, just like him. Part of that is his doing, it’s obvious. He can tell somewhat due to the way they light up when he waves back to them, partly due to the home made shirts some of them are wearing. He can’t help but smirk at the one that reads ‘ Happy, Come Show Me What A Hole In One Really Is.” 

Shooter seems to sense the nervous energy radiating from Happy, and leans back in his chair, his one arm draped across the back. Shooting quick nods or subtle waves towards fans, he makes it a point to brandish the fake smile reserved for public settings. Before long, the lights are dimmed, cameras on, and Virginia takes the stage. 

“Thank you, everyone who’s gathered here tonight. My name is Virginia Venit, and I am the PR Director of the Pro Tour. Unfortunately, Doctor Lisa Cuddy from Princeton Plainsboro had a bit of a last minute emergency, and she was unable to be here tonight… Nevertheless it is my honor to present two of our best golfers this season, Happy Gilmore and Shooter McGavin!”

Polite applause fills the room, some rowdy ‘whoops ’ and hollers are added in for good measure by some less than stuck up fans. Virginia waits for the roar to quiet down, before continuing. 

“It is truly an honor to be a part of such a wonderful event. It’s been ten years now since we first partnered with the PPTH Charity Tournament, and for the past decade we have been able to raise money for such wonderful charities. This year, I am honored to announce that the Cancer Research Foundation will be the recipients of all funds raised from this tournament. Our organization and our players couldn’t be more grateful and excited to be part of such a wonderful cause.” 

“ I’m going to beat your saggy ass in this tournament .” Happy growls.

“Like you beat Bob Barker? I’m not too concerned.” The two make eye contact for a brief moment, before the other man brings his hand up to obscure his lips from any stray lip readers. 

“I’d like to take a moment to thank everyone in attendance tonight and those who will be travelling just to get involved with the tournament this year. Whether it be in person, as a spectator, a donor, or you watch from the comfort of your own home.” Virginia gestures back to the few cameras, bowing slightly. “Your support means the world to us and to the many people who will be touched by your generosity. 

“Without further ado, I’ll turn the microphones over to the audience, and to you, our players.” She takes a step back, holding her arm out towards Happy and Shooter. 

Soon enough, a small line forms behind the microphone in the center of the room. The questions come quick; ‘Who’s your favorite golfer?’, ‘When did you first start playing golf?’, ‘If you could play a different sport what would it be?’. The answers are basic, run of the mill, nothing out of the ordinary. Despite the fact that the two golfers have hardly interacted with one another, the event has been cordial. 

A young woman, no older than twenty steps up to the microphone. He clears his throat and speaks quietly, struck by nerves. “This question is for both of you; What excites you most about playing in this tournament?”

Shooter nods, taking his queue to answer the question. “Any day I get to venture over to New Jersey is a great day. Something about the air here… just makes me want to stay a little longer. Must be all the great people in this state.” He winks, taking a sip of his water before continuing. “I mean, it’s such a great plate to make a few putts, and of course, beat the competition.”

Happy scoffs. “Seriously? We’re playing a charity tournament for people with cancer and your biggest excitement is the idea of beating me ?” 

Shooter forces a laugh, but his eyes betray his true anger bubbling beneath the surface. “That’s not what I said.” He looks to the audience as he continues to weakly laugh, fishing for some sort of approval. He receives none.

“You see, it's more of what you didn’t say. I mean, my answer would be the opportunity to raise money for such a good cause.” 

“I mean of course, that's a given.” 

“Is it?” Happy questions

Shooter stands, his chair screeching against the floor as he looms above Happy. One arm on the table, the other on the back of Happy’s chair, McGavin presses quietly. “What are you doing? Huh? Trying to make me look like a fool?” He stands, turning back towards the audience and raising his voice with a devilish smile. “Of course charity is important!” 

“Uh oh… did I make McGavin angry? Oops .” Happy calls out, a sing-song tone singing through the air. 

This alone is enough for Shooter to snap. His fists clench into white hot balls.“That’s it-”

Happy quickly grabs his glass of water and tosses it towards Mcgavin, a chorus of gasps fill the room as the audience watches with wide eyes and baited breath. After a few moments of silence, chaos ensues. People laughing, yelling, cheering, booing. Virginia signals for the camera’s to cut, Happy fights a smirk. McGavin storms out, not even stopping to throw a retort back. Knowing it would be lost among the noise, regardless. 

***

Slipping a tenner to the valet parking attendant, House throws his few bags over his shoulder. His usual worn navy backpack is filled to the brim with his outfits for the weekend and miscellaneous golf equipment. The heavier, brand new golf bag which is slung over his other shoulder holds his clubs, still covered in a thick layer of stubborn dust. 

After a few moments of adjusting to the unbalanced weight on his back, and waving away a few hotel employees who encouraged him to accept their help carrying everything in, House makes his way into the hotel. 

Riverside Inn, a small but pleasant hotel just steps from the sprawling green of the holes that lay in its front lawn. House meanders over the uneven cobblestone walkway, and through the main doors. 

The lobby is small, and pretty standard. It's nothing extravagant, but it’s clear that a lot of care is put into maintaining its appearance, especially this weekend, when a huge influx of visitors is expected. A few vases of fresh white flowers sit poised on shelves that line the olive green walls. Besides the various paintings of watercolor golf courses with intense pink and purple skies, and few knicknacks, the lobby is otherwise empty, save for the check in desk. 

As soon as he enters the lobby, a wave of rumbling noise hits him from further inside the hotel. House rolls his eyes, and makes his way up to the front desk. 

“I’m here to check in.”

The shorter woman who sits behind the desk looks up at him, smiling from behind her computer. “May I have your name?”

“House.” 

The woman works quietly, asking for his license and tapping into her computer. House takes the time to look around, his eyes lingering on the entranceway of what must be the bar. Snippets of conversation fly loose and infect the lobby.

“Is it always this loud?” House asks, his eyes not moving from the archway in the corner. It is almost deafening, the screams and laughter and what sounds like breaking glass? If the bar always overserves people to such a degree to cause that amount of noise, maybe he wouldn’t have such a bad time after all. 

The woman shakes her head, looking up from her work. “Oh, some of the big golfers are having a Q and A right now in the bar.” She hands over his license, and a pamphlet of the hotel. “If you hurry, you might be able to catch the tail end of the presentation.”

“Big golfers, huh?” Looking down at the pamphlet, he can’t help but wonder how big the golfers really are if they agreed to stay in a place like this. Clearly not Arnold Palmer, or any of the other greats. His mind travels back to Happy Gilmore, and thoughts of him messing up Cuddy’s big weekend. Is he here? 

The receptionist bubbles excitedly, the words falling out of her mouth faster than she can pronounce them. “Oh, yes. Happy Gilmore is here, and so is Shooter McGavin. I really hope I can get their autograph-”

The worker in the seat beside her clears her throat, signaling the end to their conversation as House fights a smirk. Happy Gilmore is here. The receptionist shrinks a bit, smiling awkwardly as she regains her professionalism. “My apologies. You’ll be staying in room 305, our presidential suite.”

Cuddy did not disappoint, and neither did Gilmore. Grabbing the keycard, he shrugs his bags over his shoulder and makes his way towards the elevator. The bar seems to have quieted down to its normal level of conversation, and House can’t help but sneak a few peeks back as he waits for the elevator to arrive.

Ding! The doors open. House grumbles, half dragging his bag of clubs into the elevator, silently cursing under his breath with each step. 

“Here, let me help you with those.” 

Another hotel employee? House rolls his eyes, not looking up from the panel of buttons. He presses the button for floor three. “I’m fine.”

“Ah, the extra weight will do me good.” The man smiles, preening his curls back. The man is slightly taller, and has an ego large enough to match. The white shirt that’s tucked into his khaki pants is pristine, besides the large splotch of wetness on his chest.  “Practice for the tournament and all.”

House rolls his eyes internally, looking down at his bag of clubs that the man is clutching between his closed fist. “Pretty tough job, being a caddie.” 

“What?” The man shoves the back of golf clubs towards House’s cane, nearly knocking him over upon impact. “I’m not a caddie. I’m Shooter McGavin .”

“Right.” House mumbles, getting his balance back. 

“You don’t know who I am?” Shooter leans closer, a scrutinizing glare on his face. 

House shrugs, not at all intimidated. He’s dealt with egomaniacs before, and he has a sizable ego of his own. “Not a huge golf fan.”

Shooter straightens, as if suddenly realizing that he is superior. “I’m the best golfer this league has to offer. I’ll be winning the gold jacket this year and joining the greats.” He puts his hands on his hips. “Are you a volunteer or something?”

“No. I’m playing.” 

Shooter laughs, an obnoxious fake chuckle. “You? Playing? Wow they really let anyone into this charity tournament don’t they?” The elevator dings. “This is my floor. I’d say I’d see you out there, but I doubt you’ll be able to keep up with the…” He gestures to House’s cane, before walking out of the elevator, laughing. His head wobbles cockily with each step, almost like a peacock. Just as the elevator doors are about to close, he sticks his upper body back into the doorway. Brandishing fingerguns, he points at House, cocking them back with each firing. “Shoota’!”

House grits his teeth hard enough to break his jaw. That guy has another thing coming.

Chapter Text

The old school alarm clock that sits poised on the scuffed up wooden nightstand blares. Two seconds of silence for every second of eardrum-shattering noise. House groans, and with his eyes still closed, manages to slam his fingers down onto the button to silence it. Slinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he grumbles, rubbing at his already throbbing thigh. 

Today's the day. The tournament. Imminent public humiliation. House grimaces at the thought, shaking his head a little as he rubs his thigh harder. As of now, his only goal is to make sure he isn't the subject of it. 

With a few quiet grumbles, he shuffles towards the ensuite. Flicking the faucet handles, he bends down and cups the puddle of warm water in his hands, droplets trickling through his long fingers. Splashing his face, he stands up and stares at himself in the mirror. 

Him? A golfer? The thought is enough to make him burst out laughing. It should be Wilson here, the pretty golden boy who never fails to captivate hearts wherever he goes. The calculated charmer would have no problem swinging a stupid club and sipping drinks all weekend. No, instead it falls on House’s shoulders; the guy who no ones likes, the one who can hardly be bothered to fake a smile-

Shrill knocking causes him to startle, his eyelids narrowing in annoyance. “House? Where are you?” More knocking, bordering on banging. “ You’re going to be late-”

House grumbles, shuffling towards the hotel door and throwing up open. “Cuddy! Good morning to you too.”

She takes a long look at him, from his sock-donned feet, up to his light blue striped pajama pants, and to his stained gray pajama shirt. Her eyes grow wider, her arms crossed.  “You aren't even dressed yet? The opening tee off is in an hour!”

“Guarantee no one would miss me.” House quips as Cuddy pushes herself into his hotel room. 

“Guarantee they would! You are the representative from PPTH.”  

“Yeah, and? I’m a doctor, not a golfer .” House scoffs, his hand running along the hotel wall as he limps further into the room. “Short of someone dropping dead on the green I’m not going to be a star.”

“Just… get changed and head downstairs.” She slings her bag onto the dresser in the middle of the room, rifling through it. She tosses a golf shirt in his direction. A dark green shirt, with white accents. The leaves of the logo of the hospital burst across the front right side of the shirt, covering a good portion of the chest area. It’s ugly, that’s for sure. He turns it over, a large white circle with brown lettering that reads “ 10th Annual Charity Golf Tournament .” encircles the image of a golf ball on a tee.  Cuddy begins to walk out of the room. “Don’t forget to stop by the check in table in the lobby.”

House sneers, holding it up with disdain.“I have to wear this?” 

“ Everyone from PPTH will be wearing them.” Cuddy says innocently. “Myself included.”

“Yeah, well, I don't have the equipment to draw people's eyes away from the ugliness of the shirt.” Eyes lingering on her chest for a beat too long, he throws the shirt back at her. “This is ridiculous.” 

She catches it, and chucks it back at his face in one swift motion. “I have to go.” She waggles her finger in front of his face, accusatorily. “Get changed. Get registered .” 

“Yeah, yeah.” House gestures for the door. “Go prepare for your big speech or whatever.” 

Cuddy leaves in a hurry, grabbing her bag, and rushing towards the door, but not before turning around and gesturing towards House with her middle and pointer finger. I’ll be watching you . 

Yes, and so will hundreds of onlookers on the green, House thinks. He stares down at the shirt still lamely clutched in his fist. Parading around the golf course like a buffoon isn't bad enough, now he has to wear the world’s ugliest shirt imaginable? He throws his pajama shirt off, sliding the new one on. It’s a bit large for him, but it’ll do. He grabs his jeans and steps into them, ignoring the burst of pain that radiates up towards his gut. 

All changed and ready to go, he reaches for his cane, but hesitates. It’s not exactly a rarity that he gets the odd stare or comment about it, and yet his mind can’t help but think about his run in with Shooter McGavin in the elevator. The snide remarks, enough ego to supply a peacock farm. It doesn't sit right with House, a man so typically five steps ahead. 

Slinging his clubs over his shoulder, he shuffles out of his room. He pats his pockets, sighing a bit as his hand makes contact with the bottle of pills in his front pocket. It’s going to be a long day, and the Vicodin will no doubt be needed to soothe both the ache in his leg and the annoyance in his mind. 

His mind is blank as he limps down the hallway, cane in hand, bag over his shoulder, an awkward combination. The tip of his cane slams into the elevator, and he steps in, watching as the doors enclose him inside. 

House can’t help but wish that Wilson could be here with him. The man would have actually enjoyed being paraded across the golf course, especially if it was for the benefit of cancer. Wilson, the goody two shoes could never resist the urge to be helpful, a ray of sunshine compared to his grumpy self. Did he land safely? He hadn’t called, or texted. Unusual for him. House shakes the thought away as the elevator doors open. He needs to focus. 

Exiting the elevator, the door part to reveal the now lively lobby. It has been transformed overnight; gone are the stuffy bouquets and drab decorations. Replaced by banners, golf themed bouquets of flowers sprouting golf tees and mini plastic clubs. Small groups of golfers and reporters, fans and family cluster around with plastic cups and finger food. Not a single familiar face in the crowd only further cements how out of place he feels. 

Continuing further, towards the glass front doors of the hotel, his eyes dart to a low lying table, beneath a green tablecloth which sports the same logo as his shirt.  “Hi, here to register for the tournament?” A middle aged woman in a visor warmly welcomes, raising her voice a bit so he can hear it over the rumble of stray laughter and steady socialization. 

House nods, looking around briefly. There's so many people, more than even he was expecting. Golfers of all kinds, laughing and hyping each other up. No sign of Happy Gilmore or McGavin, something which makes him relax a bit. 

The girl asks, looking up at him. “Your name?”

“Gregory House.” He answers, continuing to glance around. It’s not usual for House to be so rattled by someone else. Usually he is the one doing the rattling. He’s out of his element, and with no ability to prove his superiority, he’s just another fish in the pond. 

She flips through a few sheets of paper, her pen searching for his name. Nodding, she begins jotting down unknown notes. “And may I have the name of your caddie?”

“What?” House snaps back to reality. 

“Your caddie… the one who will be carrying your clubs?”

House cocks his head, his eyes narrowing in annoyance. “How would I know their name? I haven’t met them yet.”

The woman smiles, walking around the table to grab his bag of clubs. Affixing a label with his name, she lines them up alongside the other tens of bags waiting to be put to use. “Oh… for this tournament you need to provide your own caddie.”

“I’m golfing for PPTH. They said they were providing me with everything.” House snaps.

The woman searches, her mouth scrunched into a scowl. “I don’t see anything noted here. Unfortunately you will need a caddie to golf, anyone will do.”

House grits his teeth, until a sick idea pops into his head. “Lisa Cuddy.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My caddie. Her name is Lisa Cuddy .”

The worker stammers. “Lisa Cuddy… As in… Doctor Cuddy? The one who’s hosting-”

“Yes, her.” House smirks. “You said I could pick anyone.”

“Wonderful, I’ll make sure she’s ready for when the tournament begins.” She stammers, her voice strained. “You can make your way outside for the opening tee off.” 

House nods, smirking as he grabs his cane from the edge of the table and makes his way outside, a sick smirk on his face. The thought of Cuddy being forced to trudge across the courses with a bag of his clubs on her back? It was too perfect. No time for her to lounge around and sip drinks with possible donors.

***

Cuddy is already ten minutes behind schedule, something she should never be, especially as Dean of Medicine for the hospital. House certainly didn’t help that problem, his refusal to wake up on time something she should have accounted for in her agenda. Unfortunately the stress of pulling off the event caused her to have a temporary lapse in judgement on that account.

She’d turned her heels in for flats, and as she walks down the cobblestone pathway towards the small stage set up in the parking lot off to the side of the hotel, she can’t help but miss the sound of her feet clacking against the ground. The crowd is small, but growing. She had hoped to be ready to take the stage before any onlookers arrived; thanks to House, that’s out of the picture. 

Her brown hair curls and cascades over her shoulders, complementing the dark green collared T-shirt she’s wearing. Something of her own design, to help her own employees stand out amongst the crowd. A sizable amount had decided to volunteer for the event, something which warms her heart. Her hospital is full of good people. Well, most of them. She tilts her head up, and clutches her papers a bit tighter as she approaches the stage. 

A younger woman, dressed in a light colored pantsuit. Her short blonde hair bounces as she moves around, organizing a few things on the stage. Her head turns to meet the noise of Cuddy climbing the few wooden steps up to the stage, and she immediately holds out her hand. “Ah, you must be Doctor Cuddy.” 

“Please, Lisa is fine.” Cuddy smiles, meeting her hand in a firm handshake.  “A pleasure to finally meet you in person, Virginia.”

Virginia nods. She’s spoken with Cuddy for a couple weeks now, discussing the event. Both of them want this to go off without a hitch, and a tournament is no small feat. By now, she knows that Cuddy is minimal talk, all business.  “I have the stage set, I’m not sure how long you plan on speaking for.”

Cuddy smiles, moving around the stage flawlessly as she gets her bearings. “I’ll just be doing an opening speech. I have to thank the donors. I’ll let you handle the logistics of the tournament?”

Virginia crosses her arms, a confident smile on her face. “Sounds great… I heard you have one of your own on the tour this year?”

Cuddy sighs. “Yes, we do. Unfortunately not our first choice… or fourth… but he’s here.” 

Virginia chuckles, clearly picking up on what she’s hinting at. “Everyone loves a little bit of golf. I think it’s a great thing.” 

“Excuse me, Doctor Cuddy?” The two women look towards a younger man, stood alongside the stage, looking up at them. “I have you marked down as being a caddie. If I could just have you over by the clubhouse for a moment…”

 “I’m about to give a speech. What do you mean I’m a caddie? ” Cuddy stammers, huffing in confusion. 

Virginia places a hand on Cuddy’s arm, trying to calm her down. “Clearly there's some mistake.”

The man frowns, shaking his head as he refers back to his list. “Nope. ‘Says so right here. ‘ Lisa Cuddy, caddie for Gregory House’ …”

Cuddy glares, her fists balling at her side. “ House . This is ridiculous.”

Virginia smiles, her mind quickly trying to sort through the easiest solution. “Hey, it could be great optics. You can tag along with my group, Gilmore and McGavin. They’re all anyone wants to see, all the cameras will be on us. Lots of screentime for PPTH .” She waggles her brows. 

Cuddy sighs. On one hand, there is quite literally nothing she would rather do less than drag House’s clubs around for two days straight. On the other hand, Virginia is right. Any opportunity for good publicity is something she should take. “Okay, sure. Just promise you won't leave me to fend for myself?”

Virginia chuckles, nodding. “Of course not. Now come on, let's get this thing started. 

After a few stray golfers take their place among the crowd before the stage, Cuddy steps forward, plastering a professional smile on her face and straightening the microphone. She takes a moment, looking out into the crowd. Searching for something even she’s not consciously aware of.  Her eyes pause when they find House towards the back of the crowd, leaning heavily on his cane. She inhales and starts speaking.“My name is Lisa Cuddy, I’m the Dean of Medicine for Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. 

“I’d like to thank our many generous donors, who have helped with everything from catering to curating our plentiful prizes. It is such an honor to be able to give back to the community, and you all are helping us do so just by playing a few rounds of golf. We thank you for that.

“I’m going to turn the microphone over to Virginia, who is going to outline a bit more of the golf related specifics of it all.” 

Polite applause ensues as Cuddy steps away from the microphone. She takes a few steps behind Virginia, and watches House. She can barely make out a small nod from him, before she returns her focus to Virginia. 

“Alright! Welcome to the Charity Tour. This tournament will run over the course of two days; today and tomorrow. Each day, golfers will play eight holes for a total of sixteen holes total. For the golfers in the crowd, I know this is much less than you’re used to, but that’s okay! We encourage you to have fun and remember the great cause you are playing for.

“Scoring will be on a typical Gross Stroke Play scoring system, meaning that whoever has the lowest amount of points over the course of the sixteen holes will win the tournament. 

“We have three prizes; first, second and third; first place being four thousand dollars, second being twenty five hundred, and third being five hundred.

“With that being said, let the tournament begin!”

Cheering, hooting, hollering, and cowbells ring out into the air. The golfers stand around, dispersing into groups of three or four as they hit the courses, caddies in tow. House walks up to the stage, lingering by the stairs as Cuddy and Virginia climb down. 

“How nice of you to ask me to be your caddie.” Cuddy places her hand on his lower back firmly, the truth behind her smile radiating through her tight lipped grin. 

“Couldn’t let you be stuck schmoozing up in the clubhouse all weekend could I?” House smirks, leaning in. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t spread the joy of golf?”

House’s eye contact doesn't waiver, even as Virginia finally catches up to the two. Her voice breaks through the tense atmosphere. “Ah, this must be the famous golfer from PPTH?” Virginia holds out her hand, waiting for House to shake her hand. “I’m Virginia Venit, Public Relations Director for the tour.”

House scroffs, gripping his cane tighter. His blue eyes travel from her hand, across her body, and up to her face with a cold, calculating glare. “Wonderful, a PR Director. Because this tournament doesn’t have enough hot air specialists already.”

Cuddy stammers, desperately trying to smooth over House’s abrasiveness. “You’ll have to excuse Dr. House, He’s very…”

“Abrupt. I understand. I’m used to it. This isn't my first rodeo, especially not with being a woman in an all men tournament.” Virginia smiles, placing her unshaken hand back on her hip, unbothered.  “Come, let me introduce you to the rest of your threesome.”

House trails behind the two women, his eyes trailing down to their butts for a moment before he smirks. “Wow, I really am getting preferential treatment, aren’t I?”

Virginia laughs, looking over her shoulder. “Don’t get too excited, it just means you’re being paired up with two other people to go around and complete the holes with.” 

“Since you so kindly volunteered me to be your caddie, Virginia said we could tag along with her group of star golfers.” Cuddy quips over her shoulder, her smugness not lost on him. 

“Great.” 

Every step feels like a sentencing. Who will he be paired up with? Some hotshot golfers who will leave him in the dust and leave him to look like an even bigger fool? 

“Alright boys, ready to hit the green?”

“Never been more ready.” Happy looks around the two women, peering at House, who stands with a scowl. “Who’s the scary old guy?”

Virginia sighs, taking a few steps to her right, no longer obscuring House from the other two he’ll be golfing with. “Happy, Shooter, This is Dr. Gregory House. He’s joining the tournament to play for Princeton Plainsboro.”

Happy Gilmore. House hides his smirk, his plan was somehow coming together, without any effort on his part. Not only would Happy have the opportunity to completely make the tournament, and Cuddy look like idiots, but she'd have a front row seat. It was almost perfect… almost. The only thing that sours his mood is the other man-

“Well I’ll be. I didn’t know you were a charity case yourself?” Shooter turns around, polishing cloth and Nine Iron in his hand. His shirt is carefully tucked into his size-too small pants, his hair bronze under the midday sun. “Playing in the big leagues just because you have a connection.”

Cuddy scoffs, her eyes enclosing her chest. “Excuse me?” 

“And who’s this pretty lady over here?” Shooter sheaths his club back inside his bag, throwing the rag at his caddie’s face. He stalks closer to Cuddy, his hand lingering near her chin, too afraid to make contact. He leans close, whispering just loud enough for House to hear. “ Tell you what, I win this thing ASAP, and you and I can go grab a drink after today’s round? ”

House rolls his eyes. “That’s enough. Are we going to get on with this, or stand around talking all day?”

“I agree with that guy.” Happy says, nodding towards House.

Let the games begin. 

***

Hole one, the squad arrives at the scene. Two golf carts pulling up in tandem, pausing once they reach the beginning of the hole. Shooter hops off first, the shift in weight causing the vehicle to dip and rebound as he struts across the course, his caddy fumbles and follows. He plucks a club from his bag, twisting his back in a few simple stretches. “Watch and learn.”

Rearing back, he lets the ball fly. It soars through the air, and lands neatly on the faraway green, bouncing near the hole. Happy rolls his eyes, stepping up next. His ball goes further, hitting the flagpole and bouncing closer to the hole, which earns Shooter a few jeers. 

House steps up, with shaky and sweaty palms. It’s not like him to get so nervous, usually he’s so self assured and composed when he’s in his element. But now, standing among those who, at the end of the day, outrank him by yards, he feels small, stupid. Camera’s on him, all focus towards his ball, it’s time for him to step up. 

He swings, and misses. A poorly pathetic swing that only emphasizes the amount of time it's been since he’s held a club, how much he’s changed since his leg injury. He curses under his breath, thanking only the polite silence of the crowd, who bit their tongues instead of laughing at his failure. 

The same cannot be said for his competitors. “Hey Gilmore, looks like we’ve got a leg up on the competition.” Shooter laughs, a hearty laugh lined with mockery. 

Happy shifts awkwardly, his eyes flickering from McGavin to House. “Not cool man. Shut up and hit your ball.” 

Putting has always been easiest for House, and this has not changed in the years since his last round of golf. Although he was up a few strokes compared to the other men, he was able to sink the ball and get a bogey on the first hole, something he was proud of. Happy had been able to drive the ball incredibly well, only to be caught up at the end; his inability to putt could be the end of his game. It took him four tries, causing him a Birdie. And Shooter? Well he was all around good, easily getting an albatross. 

Hole after hole, course after course. Hot sun beating down on House’s back, causing him to pray he was wearing anything other than the dark colored shirt Cuddy so nicely gifted him. He isn’t awful, not by a long shot, but his skills belong with the likes of retirees and middle aged men with too much time on their hands rather than professional golfers. 

It’s a never ending cycle of begrudging stress; with Happy and Shooter up one another’s ass, and House following along with Cuddy, trying not to think about how ridiculous this whole thing is. He hobbles up to the tee, bending over with a quiet whine as he puts the ball down. 

“You’re doing good, you only have two holes left.” Encouragement from Cuddy is a rare thing for House, and yet something in her feels almost bad. He was right, as usual, he shouldn’t be on the course.

“Yeah, and I'm losing.” Lining up, he swings, grunting as his leg stiffens from overexertion. “You owe me a drink.”

She nods approvingly at the swing, even though her eyes are softened in understanding as the pain is evident in House’s every movement. “Put it on my tab.” She quips, although her heart really isn't in it. 

Final hole, House tees off first, all of his energy being poured into the swing. He stumbles a bit as he drives the ball, the impact of the swing creating a soft pop as the ball hits the club. Flying further, further, further, until it descends, bouncing on the green, and landing neatly in the hole. A hole in one. 

“Ha!” House can’t help himself, he points towards Shooter. “Try and keep up with me now!’ He limps quickly to the golf cart, leaving everyone, including Cuddy stunned. He revs the engine, turning the key hard, and steps on the gas, leaving nothing but a cloud of red dirt in his wake. 

Cuddy coughs awkwardly, sharing an apologetic look towards the two golfers before meekly taking her place next to Virginia. “Mind if I catch a ride with you?”

Virginia cackles, shaking her head. “See? Everyone loves golf.” 

***

With the completion of the eighth hole, the group made their way back towards the clubhouse. House rests his head against the back of the seat as Cuddy drives, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the sight of her driving the golf cart. The two once again alone in their vehicle. “You have to give another speech again?”

Cuddy shakes her head, her eyes focused on navigating back towards the hotel. The sun has begun to set, a light golden hue settling down over the Garden State. “Thankfully, no. Not until the gala tomorrow evening.” The cart putters to a stop as she pulls the cart next to the line of already empty carts, throwing it in park with a flick of her wrist. “Thanks for keeping it civil out there.” 

Deciding to keep his mouth shut, House gives nothing more than a curt nod and gestures for her to lead the way. It had taken a great deal of restraint for him not to snap; yell or outright refuse to play anymore. He isn’t one to get pushed around, especially not by incompetent fools with clubs up their ass, but he refrained from making a public spectacle. The few times he's done that all on his own have shown him that Cuddy nor Wilson would particularly appreciate it, even if the bastard McGavin did deserve it. 

The event space in the rear of the hotel is large and sparsely decorated. A fact which will undoubtedly change in twenty four hours, when the final closing gala begins. Cuddy had mentioned it a few times in the past few days; food, light music, an open bar, raffles, bountiful opportunities for donations to roll in. Just another thing for House to suffer through. At least there will be alcohol. 

House trails Cuddy, his eyes flickering around the room. Olive green walls not unlike those in the lobby expand to high vaulted ceilings. Cheesy white moulding lines the seams of the room, boxing them inside. His cane clacks on the faux marble flooring; white and dark gray swirls surround his feet like ripples of a puddle, flowing and leading the way to twenty round tables. Each one carefully adorned in a clean white table cloth and golden name plates. 

“The seats have been organized alphabetically.” Cuddy whispers, slowing up to match House’s pace. She had been able to easily sense his wariness. He’s never been one for the intricacies of prim and proper events such as these. “You should be at that table, over there.”

He follows her finger towards the table in the front right corner of the room. A few unknown golfers sit, chatting among themselves, but his eyes quickly catch towards the familiar black and gold hockey jersey sitting next to an open seat. Score. 

House grins, already making his way over to the table. He calls over his shoulder. “Okaygreatthanksbye! ”

House circles the table from a distance, confirming his name is the one in front of the empty chair before beelining towards it and plopping down next to Happy. “ We meet again .” 

“Oh, hey, it's you…” Happy looks up from the sleeve of his hockey jersey, his eyes subtly trailing towards the nameplate. “...Gregory.” Happy chuckles goofily, earning a few stray looks from the other men at the table. “What kind of a name is Gregory?”

House settles his cane between him and Happy, propping it up against the table. Extending his bad leg a bit, he exhales as the thrum of pain grows more intense. “Not one that gets used often. Most people call me House.”

“Alright.” He says, smiling through a toothy grin. “Hey House, what’s it like being a Doctor?”

“Oh, just about as boring as being a golfer I imagine.”

“I’m not a golfer. I’m a hockey player.” Happy slaps back. 

“Right. I could definitely tell, between the jersey and the signature lack of skates.” 

Happy scoffs, shaking his head and running his hand through his short black hair. “I’m just trying to get money for my grandma. She’s going to lose her house.”

Silence settles on House’s lips. Any other time he would shut down conversation, tell the man how pointless it is to waste his time doing… whatever it is he’s doing. Instead he fishes the pill bottle out of his pocket, popping it open and shaking two vicodin into his other hand. He can’t piss off Happy Gilmore. Not now, at least.  “You know, I was expecting more punching from you today.”

“Too focused on trying to kick McGavin’s ass.”

House snorts, the thought alone enough to crack his facade. Both the men have personal beef against him; the asshole who can never keep his mouth shut. 

Virginia appears in the corner of House’s eye, and he sits up straight as she taps the microphone a few times, ensuring it’s on. “I’ll make this quick, as I’m sure a bunch of you are raring to go hit the bar.” 

The crowd laughs in response, before settling back down to a few quiet murmurs. 

“Here’s the current leaderboard. In third place, we have Norton, with an overall score of minus seven.”

A polite applause rings out as an older man with a white ponytail stands, bowing before taking his seat once again. House’s eyes narrow as he takes in the man on the opposite side of the room, noticing that he’s seated at the same table as McGavin. 

“In second place, Happy Gilmore, sporting a negative 10!” Virginia gestures to Happy, who stands awkwardly, flashing a small wave before sitting down. House looks up at him, a crooked smile on his face. Louder applause this time, a more enthusiastic crowd. 

“And, of course, in first place. Shooter McGavin, currently sitting at twelve strokes under par!”

Shooter stands, soaking up the polite clapping. The golden boy, in all his glory. 

“I can’t stand him.” House mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. 

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Happy grimaces, tracing his finger around the rim of his water glass. “I’d love to see him fail.”

Golfers rise from their seats as Virginia dismisses them, quiet conversations and pats on the back. Happy stands, and House follows, the words leaving his mouth before he has a chance to stop them. “I have a proposition.”

“Yeah?” Happy continues walking, not bothering to slow down for House. He catches up anyway, pushing through the pain that has grown from the longevity of the day. “You and me, let’s team up. Take him down.”

Happy scoffs, shaking his head as he pushes the heavy auditorium doors open. A burst of cool air socks both of them in the face. “You’re not exactly the best at golf.”

“No, but I am the best at getting under people’s skin.” 

“Not a bad idea. What’s in it for you?”

“Besides getting to watch him fail?” House scoffs, his mind drifting towards his interactions with Shooter.  “I didn’t choose to play in this stupid tournament. Frankly I'd rather be doing anything but. You know my caddie?”

Happy nods, recalling the day’s events. “The woman from the hospital?”

“Yeah, her. I’d love to make this tournament memorable for her, if you catch my drift.”

Happy slowly dawns a not so innocent smirk, nodding as he understands. “Ha, yeah I get it. I think we can definitely make that happen.” He holds out his hand, waiting for a hand shake. 

House grasps it, shaking it firmly. 

The enemy of my enemy… 

Chapter Text

The complimentary hotel breakfast is doing very little to quell the queasiness in House’s stomach. The in room mini bar had been ransacked last night, anything to dull the ache in his chest and the soreness of his leg. Yesterday was too much, and today has no promise of being any better. 

Another round, eight more holes, and then he’s free. 

The golf course is almost serene; a late summer breeze ransacking through the leaves of the trees that line the course and divide the green from the distant buzz of route 206 which lays just beyond. Club in hand, he spins it mindlessly as he looks to Happy, his new partner in crime. 

The partnership is not one formed out of friendship, but instead out of necessity. The need to make two grown fools cry, although for very different reasons. Shame and embarrassment can be used as a labor of love, only if the other party is in agreement. 

Cuddy should know by now what to expect; this is what House does. Never take his words as truth, his actions always prove his true meaning. How many times had he screwed her back? Given her a taste of her own medicine after ‘allowing’ her to boss him around? The endless game of cat and mouse is fun for both of them, whether or not she admitted it out loud. Their bond is longstanding and tested. 

Unlike McGavin. 

‘ The man has no idea who he’s messing with’, House muses to himself as he watches Shooter approach the tee for his first swing of the day. He sees an older man, a grumpy doctor forced to play a round of golf to impress his boss. 

Metal strikes the ball, it flies in the air, to which Shooter bows to the crowd which has formed around their little posse. ‘He has no idea, the truth to those words.’  

Cornered, wounded animals don’t give in. Patients rarely give up and die when faced with a medical bout. They fight back. 

Blue eyes flick upward towards Happy, who meets House’s gaze and replies with an eye roll of his own. The two have discussed very little, not having the pleasure of being alone with one another. Nothing but a barely discussed plan and the will of two men with a shared enemy hold them together. 

Club smacking grass as Happy steps up to the tee, placing his ball down with a scoff. “Hey, McGavin, is that the best you can do?” 

Shooter puffs out his chest in cocky defiance. “You may out-range me, Gilmore. It’s a shame you can’t putt.”

Happy swings, the ball flying much further than Shooter’s. So far, that it ends up in the woods; out of bounds. 

“Ha. Nice shot . At this rate even the cripple will be beating you.” McGavin scoffs, making his way towards his golf cart. “See you losers at the next hole!” 

Happy makes his way back over to House, and the two stare at the cart as it piddles down the slope slowly, negating all the urgency Shooter had. 

“Go on, go get him.” House nods towards the shrinking golf cart. 

“Nah. I’ll wait for you. We can ride together.” 

House shrugs, grabbing a club from his bag. No longer is it being held by Cuddy, who was ‘just far too swampe d’ with pulling everything together. Sunday, the final and biggest day of the tournament. 

A large number of staff from PPTH are here today, running raffle booths and food stands alongside the courses. The big lead up to tonight; when the results and charity gala would put an end to this madness. Everything will be back to normal soon, the only thing standing in his way is eight holes. 

Bending over and lining up his club, he takes a deep breath, rears back to swing, and-

“Wait.” Happy walks over gently repositioning House’s arms. “Try now.”

The ball flies, further than he’d ever hit it before. It lands a considerable distance away from Happy’s, although that is to be expected. House gives a curt nod, and the two take the golf cart down to the other end of the hole. 

“Are we still on for making his life a living hell?”

House nods, not looking as he drives the cart down, caddies in the back seat. “Yeah. He pretty much cemented that in the first two seconds of interacting with him.”

Happy guffaws, shaking his head as he looks at the passing crowds of people. The cart isn’t fast, not really; only speedy enough to cause heads to turn and faces to blur.

“So, do you have any ideas on how to get him back?”

“I have a few,” House muses, his mind already racing with the implication. Public humiliation is kind of his forte, but to pull it off perfectly requires some tact. “Feel free to use some artistic liberty, though.”

***

Hole four. The trio make their way towards the elongated green, swerving and turning in ways that resemble a hiking path, surrounded by a thick and dense forest. There’s two options; play it safe and take multiple small holes and stay on the green, or skip the course entirely with a powerful swing, and land on the green. Overshoot it? A three stroke penalty for landing in the woods.

By some grace of god, House is winning. Not the tournament, or even among the people he’s playing with; not fully. Shooter is in the lead by nearly three points, a lead which the two other men clearly wish was less. Happy, however, is trailing by nearly four points, House smack dab in the middle. He almost feels bad. His new teammate has been trying to give him pointers, and has been, rather successfully. So much so that House has managed to overtake him, which is only serving to make Happy more and more flustered, causing his game to suffer. 

The three men approach the fourth hole, polite applause welcomes them in. It still blows House’s mind that people want to stand around and watch golf . A simple sport for simple minds, he thinks to himself. The charity aspect is just an excuse for their urge to watch grown men hit balls with sticks. 

“House!” A familiar voice out of hundreds catches his attention, and he turns around to face the crowd. Squinting a bit, his eyes sort through the hundreds of unrecognizable faces, like finding a raindrop in a riptide. It only takes a few moments for the wave to crest, Wilson pushing his way to the front with a few muttered apologies and awkward hand raises as people packed like sardines protest his movement. 

House can’t help the way it becomes easier to breathe at the sight of his best friend. “Wilson? What are you doing here?”

“I got an early flight out. Is it true? You’re not last?”

House shrugs, cocking his head back behind them. “That’s what the board says.”

“Wow, what a fall from grace.” Shooter scoffs, speaking obnoxiously loud as he too, looks at the score board. He had clearly been listening in, and is now ensuring that he is loud enough to be heard in return. He turns to Happy, his arms planted firmly on his hips. “I never thought I’d see the day. A senile doctor causing the amazing Happy Gilmore to lose his cool. Are you afraid of old men or something?”

Happy stalks up to him, a finger pointed dangerously at the other man’s chest. “Shut your trap Shooter before I shut it for you.”

“Oh-ho, big man with big threats. Don’t get mad at me because you can’t fumble your way to a win again.” Shooter makes his signature hand gesture, two fingers jabbing Happy’s chest back.  “I could literally hit the ball with my eyes closed and still win.” He points down the green, his eyes narrowed as he gets in the other man’s face. 

“Let’s see it.” House pipes up, shifting his weight from his cane to his other leg, taking a few steps forward. Wilson raises his eyebrows and purses his lips suspiciously. 

Shooter laughs, shaking his head in agreement. “This one's for you, Handi.”

“Name’s House.”

“What, you don’t like the cute nickname? I wasn’t referring to the pills, either. I was talking about the handicap they should put on your score.” Shooter smirks, shrugging.  He takes a moment, eyes lingering on his bad leg. “Although, now that I think about it, the leg thing ties in too.” He closes his eyes, holding out his hand towards his caddie and wagging his fingers. “Alright, hand me my club.”

House steps forward quickly, handing him the end of his cane, hook towards the ground. He shoots a look towards his caddie, who silently pretends to zipper his mouth. Good, House thinks . His mouth twisting into a sinister smirk as McGavin approaches the tee, none the wiser. 

Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. 

He swings the cane, and the ball arches high, landing only five or so feet away from the tee. The crowd erupts in laughter, causing Shooter to quickly open his eyes. His hand grips the wood grain of the cane, his eyes flicking downward. His rage is imminent and palpable, fueled by the continuous roar of jeering. He throws House’s cane at him, it bounces lamely and lands in the grass, wet from the dew. 

Bending down and handing his cane to Wilson for safe keeping, House steps up to swing, not phased by the death stare being thrown his way via McGavin. “I guess, you did technically hit the ball.” He shoots an innocent smile at the raging man. “ Nice job! ” 

House swings, the ball flies. “See you two at the next hole!”  With that, he drives away, his caddie in tow.

Shooter scoffs, leaning close to Happy. So close, the other man can feel the warmth of his breath prick his neck. “Hey, look at that. You’ve lost two House’s this month.” 

***

Finally. 

The end.

Or at least, close enough to the end for it to be in sight. 

The final hole. The final yards before this whole thing can be put to rest. Happy has made his gradual comeback, neck and neck with McGavin now. All things as they’re supposed to be. Almost. Not quite. 

For all the taunting, joking, name calling, and otherwise horrible sportsmanship between the three, the tournament has gone smoothly. 

Too smoothly for House, who was hoping to give Cuddy a PR crisis worth contacting the hospital legal staff about. 

But it's okay. Making a fool out of McGavin would be enough for him. 

Halfway down the course, only a few more swings until the end. A feeble both sits on the side of the course, the smell of barbeque and burgers wafting through the air. House glances out of the corner of his eye, seeing three familiar figures; his fellows. Foreman and Cameron hard at work, bent over a large grill. Smoke pluming into their faces as they struggle to keep up with demand. The sight makes House smirk. His three normally poised and held together employees struggling to run a food booth. 

A blonde mop of hair approaches the front of the booth, Chase’s signature Australian accent peeking through the crowd. He too is wearing one of the god awful golf shirts that Cuddy designed. Plastic cooking gloves, and tongs in hand, he grins a stupid sparkly grin. “Come on, House, let’s see you do better than a quadruple bogey!” He teases over the mother and child who stand in front of him, waiting patiently for their burger, which is being flipped on the grill by Foreman. 

The snarky response dies on House’s tongue as Happy throws his club down, rolling up the sleeves of his hockey jersey and cracking his knuckles. “You think it’s funny to pick on my friend?” 

Friend? 

Chase shakes his head, retreating a half step. All sense of playfulness lost. “Huh?” 

Happy vaults over the rope separating the players from the crowd; which eagerly parts as he stalks towards the food booth. 

Wide eyed and panicked, Chase throws his hands up trying to minimize himself. He stammers,  “I was just joking-” 

Happy grits his teeth, the stress of the competition making his blood boil and his patience thin. He launches himself over the table, knocking over the register and donation jar. Happy lands on Chase, bringing the two men down to the grass as punches fly. “Who’s the joke now?”

Chase dodges his head back and forth as fists fly into the grass. One punch lands squarely in his eye socket. The swelling is immediate. 

Gasps, screams, a near stampede erupts as people fling themselves away from the scene. House watches as the crowds dissipate, allowing him a clear view. Chase rolls over, looming over happy. He goes to punch him back but gets the wind knocked out of him as the hockey player punches his throat. A hoarse wheeze is all Chase can emit, before being brought back down. 

Camera’s pivot, turning to get a full glimpse of the action. Security breaks up the scene. Strong men pulling the men apart from one another. 

Cuddy’s voice from a distance, her voice shrill and panicked. “ What on earth is going on here?”

Now the day is complete.

Chapter Text

“They must’ve spent half the hospital’s budget on hors d'oeuvres alone.” Wilson mutters under his breath as the two men peruse one of the many tables of food laid out in the ballroom attached to the hotel. Small gold green plates hold various appetizers; small bites of food meant as nothing more than an opening to the actual meal. Each food is adorned with a small placard, a golf pun inscribed. Mini club sandwiches sit behind a sign that reads ‘Sand Wedges’, a bowl of creamy mac and cheese is now ‘Mac and Tees’. 

The thought of Cuddy sweating over the menu, trying to come up with stupid golf puns for each food makes him smirk. Wasting no time, he grabs a small plate, and picks up a few ‘peanut butter cookies’. “Not complaining. Least they could provide after making me suffer for the entire weekend.” He punctuates the end of his sentence by shoving a less than moist cookie into his mouth. 

Wilson shrugs, spooning a bit of the ‘putt-putt pasta salad’ onto his plate. House flicks his gaze towards Wilson, whose button up sleeves rolled up just to his elbows. How had he managed to avoid the ugly PPTH shirt? “Was it really that bad? It seemed like you were having fun with Happy Gilmore. Never thought I’d see the day.” Wilson asks, his eyes drifting back towards the array of food as they shuffle along amongst the line. 

“I was not having fun. It was mutually assured destruction, nothing more.” House scoffs, crumbs flying out of his mouth. 

Wilson cocks his head, perusing the table. Grabbing more than a few ‘Birdie nuggets’ and piling them on his plate, a simple shrug is all he can muster. They pause as they approach the fruit section. Various fruit salads and skewers sit prettily under the warm light. He’s about to open his mouth to respond, when he sees a figure lingering nearby out of the corner of his eye. 

The two men turn to look at the figure; a smile from Wilson and a shaking of a head from House in response. Foreman, clearly he wasn’t fortunate enough to avoid the curse of the ugly green shirt. House turns around back towards the food, attempting to appear unbothered at his appearance. “Hey, Foreman, look. They named these after you.” House points towards the ‘Fore Fruit Kebabs’  “Get it? Because-”

“Ha ha, very funny.” Foreman claps his hand against House’s shoulder, trying unsuccessfully to steer him away from the food. “Cuddy’s been looking everywhere for you.”

House scoffs, shoving another cookie in his mouth. “Clearly not hard enough. Obviously I’m be by the food.” 

“He’s not wrong.” WIlson concedes, shrugging as he looks back towards Foreman. This earns him a smirk from House, who not so secretly approved of WiIson’s backup.

“Of course I’m not.” House quips. “What does she want anyway?”

Foreman rubs his bald head almost awkwardly, a move which keys House into the fact that he is undoubtedly about to drop some unwanted news on his lap. Smiling meekly, he manages, “I’m not sure. She said she needed your help with one of the speeches Chase was supposed to give…”

“What do you mean ‘supposed to?’ Don’t tell me he bailed out.” House grumbles. 

“He was socked in the face by one of the tour’s star golfers. It wouldn't exactly be a good look for either side-” 

“Give him some makeup. I’m sure the bruise hasn't peaked yet.” House shrugs, attempting to return back to the line of food, only to be stopped by Foreman’s grip on his shoulder. 

“His eye is swollen shut.” Foreman adds with a raised brow and pointed stare. 

This earns the attention of Wilson, who had previously been sorting through the fruit bowl with an oversized spoon, fishing for orange slices. “Chase isn’t so tough after all” 

“What, so Cuddy wants me to do a speech?”

“There you are!” A staunchly feminine and familiar voice rings out through the hall, and House resists the urge to shrink away. “Thanks Foreman, you can go.”

Foreman shuffles away, shooting a sly glance towards House and Wilson before disappearing back into the crowd. Looking up at the ceiling, House silently curses everything in existence; his mother for birthing him, Wilson for attending the conference and leaving him to fend for himself, God, the lack of a God. The list is endless, much like his suffering. “I am not giving a speech-”

Cuddy laughs. If it can even be considered a laugh. More of an angry chuckle, before not so gently patting him squarely in the back. Wilson fights the battle of his facial expressions, failing exponentially. He only just manages to turn around by the time Cuddy speaks again. “Oh yes you are. Your little plan with Gilmore backfired. It’s time you pay the price.”

“What plan? He went off the rails and punched Chase. I’m not his keeper. Not my circus, definitely not my monkeys.”

“I saw how familiar you two were on the course, don’t deny it.” She had him there. But the command to punch one of his fellows never came from his lips, as much as it would fit for it to be his directive. Cuddy crosses her arms, tapping her foot.  “Well I can’t give the speech. I’ve already spoken enough and I have to speak again tonight. It only makes logical sense for it to be you.”

WIlson pipes up, raising a shy hand. “I can do it.”

“Absolutely not. You just flew in.”

“I’d be honored, actually. And I am the Head of Oncology. I can add more than House could...” Wilson trails off, almost awkwardly ‘…due to the fact that I can actually tolerate people’ is implied, not said, but communicated clearly through the silence. 

“Fine. I’ll get you a shirt. Meet me back behind the stage in twenty minutes.” She turns to leave, House’s gaze locking onto her backside as she takes a few steps away. 

“Oh no, the horror! Run quick Wilson.”

Stopping in her tracks, she wags a finger at House. “And you. You better keep your nose out of any funny business. I want the rest of tonight going off without a hitch, or else I’ll add hours onto your clinic duty.”

“We had a deal.” House sneers, leaning on his cane as he takes a step forward. 

“You negated that deal by causing a scene.”

“I didn't cause a scene!” House yells, causing more than a few wayward glances to shoot their way. 

Feeling the weight of the stares of patrons, Cuddy lowers her voice, straightening herself. A quiet warning rumbles from her mouth, a promise. “Just… keep your mouth shut. Or else.”

The pair watch as she walks away, wandering eyes eventually return to their own conversations, and Wilson breathes a sigh of relief. “You’re a jackass.”

House scoffs, reaching over and snatching one of the mini sandwiches from Wilson’s plate. “You’re a kissass, and that’s worse.”

***

After carefully sweeping the tables with his gaze, House plops down in an empty chair next to Foreman. Just one of the few PPTH dedicated tables here, the rest encircled with familiar doctors and nurses happily chatting away. Cameron and Foreman look up as House sits, Chase merely shifts, his hand gripping a bag of ice, pressing it firmly against his eye socket. 

House scoffs, stretching his leg and fishing into his pocket for his Vicodin. He grabs the bottle, popping the cap off and shaking the bottle. No pills come out, the bottle is empty. 

Damn. 

Cameron takes in House’s appearance. The green shirt is obscured by his dark black jacket, his hair is mussed. Red sunburn tints his cheeks. He looks exhausted, physically and mentally. “You look thrilled to be here.” 

“Shut up.” House replies, leaning forward to knead at the muscle in his thigh. “It’s been a long weekend.” And I’m out of Vicodin. 

Awkward clearing of his throat ruminates from the speakers as Wilson takes the stage. “My name is Doctor James Wilson, I’m the Head of Oncology for PPTH. I wanted to thank everyone for being here; golfers, fans, volunteers. According to the numbers here…” He shuffles through the packet of papers he’s been given. An attempt to make it appear as though this entire speech hasn't been thrown together at the last minute. It isn’t working very well; the forest green shirt that hangs off his frame is slightly too big, a fact which has attempted to be hidden by the gray jacket he’s draped across his arms. “It looks like we raised over ten thousand dollars towards cancer research. I can’t stress enough how much that will change the lives of countless families, and I thank you. It’s funny, I actually flew home early from a national cancer conference-”

A brusque voice cuts through Wilson's nervous chatter. “The results?”

His train of thought comes to a complete stand still. “I’m sorry?”

“Where are the results?” Shooter Mcgavin stands, gesturing towards the room full of people, ready and waiting to hear who won the tournament. “I mean, we’ve heard about the charity all week, am I right fellas?”

A few grumbling murmurs begin to rise from the crowd, the response mixed between agreement and distaste for the outburst. Wilson shuffles awkwardly on stage, the heat from the spotlights making sweat bead down his face. “Right, um-”

House rolls his eyes, jamming his cane impatiently on the ground. He glares at Shooter, making no attempt at civility. The minimal patience he has for the man has long since dissipated, and coupled with the fact that he’s making Wilson feel like a fool, he isn’t going to sit by idly. “Great idea! Maybe if you keep interrupting, the speech will end quicker!”

Virginia quickly steps out onto the stage, tactfully shoving Wilson out of the way so she can speak into the microphone. “That’s enough. I appreciate everyone’s enthusiasm but let's not forget the real reason we’re here…”

“We’re here for the results!” An unknown elderly voice cries out. 

“Shut up! We all know you aren't even in the top ten old man!” Happy shoots back, equally displeased with Shooter’s outburst. House and Happy share a glance from across the room, a quiet nod of affirmation saying more than words ever could. 

House’s eyes remain trained on Wilson, who whispers a few concessions into Virginia’s ear before awkwardly nodding and heading off stage. It only takes a few moments of listening to the crowd before he makes his way towards the table, sitting awkwardly next to House. 

“Way to keep ‘em entertained.” House’s elbow finds the other man’s ribs. 

WIlson pushes him away. “Shut up. These people are heathens.” 

“Welcome to the world of golf.” he replies, rolling his eyes. 

Cocking her head, Cameron inquires, “I thought golfers prided themselves on manners?” 

“Define manners. Golf etiquette? Yes. Normal manners? Not so much.” House shifts a bit, desperately trying to get comfortable. 

“Wow, House you must've fit right in.” Foreman smirks. 

“He certainly buddied up with Gilmore.” Chase replies, his voice muffled by the ice pack on his face. 

“No use pushing it off any longer; the results of the tournament. In third place-“ 

Leaning over until his breath is close enough the grace House’s cheek, Wilson whispers over the sound of the results being announced. “Do you mind if we carpool on the way home? I got dropped off here by a taxi.”

“Sure, but you’re driving. My leg is killing me.” 

“Second place, Shooter McGavin.” At that, Shooter happily bounds up the stairs, taking the time to bask in his glory. A few waves and points at fans only cause his applause to increase, and House’s annoyance to triple. Physically biting his lip to restrain whatever unfiltered pain ridden outburst would cross his lips, the taste of iron floods his mouth.  

Shooter grins, walking up to the microphone for an unprompted speech. “I just wanted to thank the wonderful people of New Jersey. I swear you people must put something in the water here, every time I come it’s harder to leave-“

Cupping his hands around his mouth, House bellows. “No speeches!”  

Payback’s a bitch. House’s eyes dart towards Wilson, Whose cheeks are brighter than a tomato. “I’d hate to have to diagnose a room full of people with third degree burns from all the hot air coming from your direction!“ 

The crowd laughs. What’s disguised as a lighthearted joke undermined but a weekend of not so gentle ribbing between the two. 

 Virginia cuts in, thanking Shooter and politely shooing him off the stage. “And in first place, the winner of the four thousand dollars, Happy Gilmore!”

Happy grins, jumping up onto the stage without the need for stairs. His excitement and thrill is palputable, and the crowd politely cheers as he not so politely rides the giant sized check around the stage as if it were a bull. House smiles, genuine amusement crossing his face. Cuddy, however, is less than pleased, covering her face with her hand and stepping back into the darkness of the curtain that leads to backstage. 

“Now, we will be serving light refreshments. We will also be hosting a few more raffles if you wish to mingle for a few more hours-“

Restless shuffling from beside him causes Wilson’s gaze to flicker towards House. “I gotta head upstairs and pack.”

Wilson cocks his head. “You aren’t going to stay?”

“My leg’s killing me. Come on, we’re both tired.”

There is no protest that falls from Wilson’s lips, the plane ride and time change has made him exhausted. 

***

A few stray shirts are collected from the floor of the hotel room, one of the few things House will miss about this weekend. The extravagant room, nice view, room service. 

“I can’t believe Cuddy put you up in the presidential suite.”

“What can I say? I drive a hard bargain.” House smirks, zippering up his duffle bag.

“Eugh,” Wilson winces, his hands splaying out at the registration of the pun. “Never do that again.” 

A quiet knock on the open hotel room door draws the two men’s attention towards the noise. Two men linger in the doorway; Happy and an unknown man, who lingers just behind him.

House fetches his cane from its place, leaning against the dresser and walks forward with his hand outstretched towards the stranger. “Ah, you must be the mentor.”

“Chubbs Peterson, it’s a pleasure.” The man offers his left hand, almost stubbornly,  causing House to quickly switch which hand is outstretched to ensure the handshake works. 

House shakes his hand, gripping his skin firmly. His eyes dart to the wooden hand attached to his other arm, eyes trailing up to his face. “Prostethic?”

Chubbs nods. “Lost it during a tournament in Florida. Couldn’t play any longer.” Chubbs smiles, a shift in the conversation. “Although I have to say, watching you on the course was an inspiration.”

House looks down at his cane awkwardly. The urge to shove off his praise with a cold retort bites at his ankles, but he kicks it back in a rare show of emotion. “I’d hardly call what I did playing, but thanks.”

Happy steps forward, taking a minute to assess Wilson before turning his attention towards House. “I came by to say thank you.”

“I should be the one thanking you. You totally made my boss look like an idiot, and you punched one of my employees.” 

Happy waves him away, dropping the bag of clubs that’s on his back and leaning against the wall. “I’m still pretty new to all this golf stuff too. Shooter’s been riding my ass ever since I won the Waterbury open. I guess he doesn’t like the way I do things.”

“Keep doing things the way you want to do them. People will hate you no matter what, speaking from experience.”

“Yeah, well. I know you didn’t win or anything but, I wanted to give you these.” He shoves the bag of clubs towards House, they clang against one another, shuffling towards the bottom of the bag. There’s ample room, this clearly isn't a full set. 

“Your clubs? Don’t you need these?” House squints, his eyebrows furrowing.

“These are some of my old ones. I need upgrades anyway, and Chubbs promised to take me to the best golf shop around before our next stop on the tour.” Happy points a thumb back towards Chubbs, who nods approvingly.

“I’ll never use these. You’d be better off selling them, using the extra money for your grandma’s house.” 

He shrugs, clearly unbothered.“They won’t make me much, just take ‘em. Think of them as a thank you from me.”

“You really shouldn’t have.” House insists, even as his fingers mindlessly travel over the clubs.

Happy grins, clapping House on the back as he watches the gentle concession of the gift. “Keep it real, Doc. And if I ever need a doctor in Princeton-”

House grumbles, looking up at him as he’s bent over examining the clubs. His irises are just barely visible under the line of his brows. “Don’t look in the rearview and keep driving until you get to Trenton.”

“See ya around House.”

House waves awkwardly, a small genuine smile plastered on his face. “Shoot straight.”

The pair leave, House’s gaze lingering on the empty doorway for a beat too long before being interrupted by a snide comment from Wilson. “In the twenty years I’ve known you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you make a genuine friend.” 

“Nothing genuine about plotting two downfalls. We were just killing two birds with one stone.”

“Whatever you say, House. You ready to go?” 

“Yeah,” he says, although the word kind of sticks like glue to the inside of his throat. He’s tired, sore, in pain, annoyed, and yet… not ready to leave this all in the rear view. Spinning the well worn iron in his hand a few times, House stares at his reflection in the metal. “Let’s go home.”

***

The car door shuts, reverberating the slam through the quietness of the chilled night air. Most everyone has gone; golfers preparing for their next leg on the tour, doctors and fans heading home to get some much needed rest before the return to reality. Grabbing the underside of his thigh, House gingerly lifts it, positioning it firmly outstretched. After two days of constantly being on his feet, coupled with the stress of the tournament, the deep scar aches. A needy, petulant pain that thrums like an engine. Settling against the back of the seat, House exhales, shutting the door and clenching his eyes shut.

“You okay?”

“Never been better.” House grumbles, both his leg and head pounding. “Come on, drive. I’m out of Vicodin and I need to get home.”

Hand grips the shifter, pulling the car into reverse. With a hand draped over the passenger seat, Wilson turns to look out the rearview window. “You did good, you know.”

House grumbles under his breath, turning to look out the window as the car speeds up. Dark figures, the hoards of trees, against a brighter sky swirl and become one as the golf course gets left behind. It’s early evening now, that sweet golden hue draping itself across the hills and valleys that overlook the highway. The rattling of his clubs in the trunk and the twitch in his thigh serve as the only tangible evidence of his endeavors. 

“I appreciate it.” Wilson says, his eyes glancing towards House before refocusing on the road. Princeton isn’t too far, and yet every second feels like an eternity. House fights the urge to roll his eyes as Wilson begins to get sappy; not unexpected. “You helped raise a lot of money for charity. It’ll help a lot of cancer patients.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Don't mention it.” House snaps, his fingers kneading his thigh in a feeble attempt to lessen the pressure. The empty Vicodin bottle in his pocket brushes against his thumb more than once- a taunting reminder of how helpless he is at the moment. “How was your conference?” Anything to take his mind off the pain. 

A quiet hum escapes Wilson as he seems to cycle through the events of his less-than weekend conference. “Interesting actually. Lots of great information about new treatments. There’s never been so much research.”

Nope, not working. “Sounds boring.”

“Yeah. I guess compared to watching Chase get decked by Happy, it was. I still don’t understand, how’d you convince him to go for it?”

A small puff of hot air escapes his lips. “I didn’t tell him to do that. He just did.”

“You can’t be serious.” Wilson laughs, a small snort following as he pulls himself together. “He just did that on his own?”

“Chase was mocking me, he stood up for his new best friend. Something you would know nothing about. It’s that simple.”

“And yet somehow you won. Made Cuddy look like a fool and got Chase punched?”

The witty response dies on House’s tongue as a car flanks them, speeding closer as if targeted onto them. Wilson panics, attempting to steer the car over towards the side of the road. It’s as if everything happens in slow motion; the near miss collision, the clunky, delayed steering, the way Wilson fights against the wheel helplessly. House grips the passenger seat handle in vain, the car finally swerving towards the bank, coming to an abrupt stop. 

“You should’ve tried to kill me before the tournament.” House scoffs, sitting upright. 

Wilson gets out, pacing around the car. Hands on his hips, he looks under the car, opens the hood, staring blankly at it, before sticking his head through his still open driver's side window. “Something’s up with your car.”

“Yeah, the driver maybe?”

“No, I’m serious. It's the suspension or something.”

Crossing his arms and flopping back, House flicks the radio on. “Let me know when we can move again.” Adjusting the brim of his hat, he cranks up the radio. Tuesday’s Gone by Lynyrd Skynyrd blares, the familiar twang of the guitar riff shaking the car. 

‘Train roll on’

Eyes are immediately drawn to the sagging rear of the car, the trunk dipping down as if the tires had been deflated. Wilson bends down, one knee on the pavement, as he pokes the tires cautiously. Nope, still inflated. He stands up and dusts off, popping the trunk open and taking a few steps back with his hands on his hips. 

‘On down the line, won’t you’

Happy’s clubs. Of course it's the extra clubs. They’re too heavy for his car. Wilson stares at the set and a half of clubs shoved into House’s bag, and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Shit. House?!” He yells over the sound of the music blaring from the open windows.

“Yeah?!” He replies, alongside an eye roll.

“Come here!” Wilson yells back. 

‘Please take me far away’

House groans, throwing his head against the headrest. “My leg is killing me-”

Wilson yells once more. “Just come here!”

‘Now feel the wind blow’

Throwing the door open with a bit more force than needed, he hobbles along the side of the car. He stops next to where Wilson is peering in the back of the car. “What?”

Wilson bends over, awkwardly trying to grab the caddy bag full of heavy clubs. “Your clubs are too heavy. Can you help me move them to the back seat? Maybe if we balance the weight-”

‘Outside my door, means I’m’

House rolls his eyes, hobbling forward. In one quick swoop, he grabs the clubs, carrying them closer towards the grass on the side of the road.  “Don’t bother.”

‘I’m leaving my woman at home, Lordy.’

Clubs fly. Silver shards against a golden sky. Goodbye golf, and the memories of this hellish weekend. Brushing his palms against each other, he turns towards Wilson. “Can we go now?”

‘Tuesday’s gone, with the wind.’

Chapter Text

The walls have been white for quite some time now, starkly clinical against the flurry of struggle which has plagued House’s mind. He’s been here for some time, almost four weeks now. After the horrendous first week writhing in pain due to Vicodin withdrawals, he had been placed into a more permanent bedroom. The single bare cot and nightstand could hardly be considered as such, and the company was far from pleasant. House’s obnoxious roommate Alvie, who would do anything in his power to ensure that House never got a moment of silence. Four weeks he’s spent in the company of Alvie and his singing. Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital- where sanity goes to die. 

House follows behind one of the many Psychiatric Nurses as she leads him down another indistinguishable hallway. Cane in hand, and limp a little less prominent than before, he grunts. “So, I’ve finally been good enough to earn a field trip?”

The nurse smiles politely, clutching the file against her chest. “Actually, yes.” With a quick gesture, she beckons him to turn down the hallway alongside her. “Mayfield has received a few friends from a neighboring psychiatric hospital who have been struggling with staffing issues. They will be staying for a few weeks.” 

“Oh great. More crazies?” House shakes his head, scoffing. The people in his support group are pathetic enough, easily able to be picked apart by a keen mind such as his, something he didn’t shy away from doing. “Why me?”

The question lingers in the air, replaced only with the steady sound of her high heels and his cane against the linoleum floor. “Doctor Nolan has been very pleased with your growth and progress so far. He was hoping you would introduce yourself to them, and be a friendly face for them to lean on in their transition.”

House rolls his eyes. “Am I getting paid for this?”

“Well, no, but Doctor Nolan believes this will be a great step forward in your treatment plan.”

“Are you sure you want me to be the one to give a speech to new patients? I’m not exactly known for my friendly face.”

The nurse fights a smile, cleaning not off put by the facade House has put on. “Come on, we wouldn't want to keep them waiting.”

The heavy door to the large intake room is pushed open, and House takes in the ten patients sitting before him. Blank stares, gray outfits, and slumped shoulders greet him for the most part. There's one patient who twitches as she looks around, and another who is bound by chains that ensnare his wrists and ankles. 

“Okay, everyone. Welcome to Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital.” The nurse is met with apathetic nods and broken eye contact. She continues on anyway, her voice soft and patient.  “This is one of our patients, Gregory House-”

At that, one of the patients jolts. He’s an older man, with a wide frame and curly white hair that spills out over the top of his head. His head raises slowly, his eyes latching onto House. 

“You!”

House’s shaved head snaps towards the grunt, widening briefly as he takes in ths broken man before him. A slight recognition flashes in his eyes as he searches his mind for where he may have seen the man. Had he been a patient? A fellow doctor? His mind comes to a screeching halt as he takes in the broken man before him. The golf tournament, the rivalry. “Shooter McGavin?”

The nurse smiles, placing a comforting hand in between House’s shoulder blade as she takes a few steps forward. “You two know each other?"

“Do- Do we know each other?” The golfer laughs, his voice twinged with madness. “Ha! Haha! Of course we know each other!”

House doesn't break eye contact, searching over the man with careful eyes. He’s older, run down, manical. Evidence enough by the gray sweatpants and sweatshirt he’s wearing, adorned with chuffs and chains on his wrists. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.  “We golfed together once or twice.” 

House gently allows himself to be led away, towards the corner of the room. With a quiet voice, the nurse leans closer. “Listen, he’s been having a really difficult time adjusting. They sent him here, to Mayfield, in hopes he has a better time.” 

“So?” House scoffs, unamused.

She continues slowly. “It may be good for the two of you to… room together.”

He shuts this down immediately, unwilling to even hear her out. “Absolutely not.”

“Just for a week, until he gets evaluated!”

“We aren’t exactly best buds. He couldn’t stand me back when he was sane.”

Thinking on her feet, the nurse babbles quickly. “We’ll put you in a bigger room. You’ll get a break from Alvie.”

Bribery? That’s the best they could do? “Fine.” Luckily for them, he’s an easy man to please. Alvie had been getting on his nerves recently. A vacation couldn’t hurt. “One week only.”

“Just, try to be gentle with him, alright?”

House rolled his eyes, mumbling profanities under his breath. 

***

True to her word, the new room was much bigger than the one he’d been stuck in for the past few weeks. And no Alvie meant a shot at sleeping a full night without interruption. 

The last time House had seen McGavin was on the TV in the doctors breakroom. He had been sitting with Wilson, feet up on the table and reuben in his hand, as he flicked through the channels lazily. 

Mouth half stuffed with a bagel, Wilson rolled his eyes as he stared at the insistence of House's finger clicking the remote. “Come on, House. Pick a station.”

“Can’t you see I’m trying?” House shot back, taking another bite of his sandwich. He sighed, and stared at the breaking news headline that graced Channel two. “They’re interrupting my Soap’s for breaking news.” 

They settled into silence as the newscasters faded, a golf course appearing on the screen. Happy Gilmore bent over, ready to take the final shot of the tournament. The ball rolled, and sank into the hole. Chaos erupted as people cheered, crowding around him. He’d done it, the son of a bitch had won the tour, saved his grandma’s house from foreclosure. House couldn’t help but smile at the thought, his momentary friendship with the golfer flourished in his chest. It had only been a few weeks since the tour, what feels like a lifetime in terms of hospital shifts and endless pain, but the friendship was still close to his heart. 

The pair watched as Doug appeared on the course, presenting him with his very own gold jacket. Only when he’s about to grab it is it snatched out of his hand. Taken by a middle aged man who runs away quickly. 

Wilson sat forward, his mouth agape. “Is that…?”

House narrows his eyes, standing up to get a better view of the small TV hung from the ceiling in the corner of the room. It was. Shooter McGavin was being chased down the green, his arm struggling to get into the jacket as people gained on him. “Well I’ll be damned.” 

It wasn’t long before he was tackled by the crowd of Gilmore supporters who had been on his ass. A few punches flew, kicks, insults, and soon enough the jacket was ripped off his back and returned to Gilmore. “Idiot.” House scoffed. 

What happened to him after the fact was always a mystery. House kept loose tabs on Gilmore, he’d gone on to continue playing for the next few years. Happy had written him a few emails, even invited him to the wedding, which he did not attend. No matter what he saw, or read, he never saw any news on Shooter. House had always assumed the man would quit out of shame. Being shown up by a rookie who can barely contain his can-do attitude and failure at golf would be enough to make him want to quit. 

House puts his bag on the bed on the left side of the room, laying his cane alongside it on the mattress. “You can take the left side.” 

Shooter shuffles in after him, looking over his shoulder awkwardly as he strains at his cuffs. Not in any sort of angry way, but anxious. House watches him slowly sit on the empty bed across from him, watching him with a careful, scared appearance.

A few hours pass as the two settle in. House unpacks his few belongings, and shoots curious glances over to Shooter, who seems to have no belongings other than a book with him. 9 pm rolls around, time for lights out. The hallway light shutters off, and they are left with nothing but the small lamps by their bedside. House hops into bed, his back breathing a sigh of relief at the increased mattress quality, and shuts his eyes. 

“He ruined my life.”

Popping a begrudging eye open, House looks at Shooter. “Who?”

Shooter’s fists ball in anger, his chains shimmying and jangling. “Gilmore. He took the gold jacket from me!”

House rolls over, laying on his side to stare at the other man. He’s disturbed, more than he ever had been at the tournament. “You can’t always get what you want.”

Shooter curls up into a ball, shaking with anger.  “It was supposed to be a Shooters Tour!”

“Look, sometimes things don’t go according to plan. You think I want to be here?”

Shooter doesn't reply, instead opting to grab his book from the nightstand and read it quietly, although it's clear that his mind is elsewhere. 

“What are you reading?”

He holds up the cover, ‘The Haunting of Hill House’.

House sits in silence for a moment. He should turn his back and go to sleep, but something in him stops himself. It had been so long since he’d spoken to anyone he’d known. Wilson seemed to be avoiding his calls, not that he blames him. The pain was too much. “You like horror?”

Shooter puts the book down, as if thinking, before nodding, still not making eye contact. “Yeah, I do.”

“You should read The Shining.” House says. 

Shooter places the book on the nightstand, turning to face House fully. “O-oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“‘We sometimes need to create unreal monsters and bogies to stand in for all the things we fear in our real lives….” He recites a quote from the book he’d read when he was still in college. “ I think you’d like it.”

Shooter nods.

“You’re not a bad guy. I mean, maybe you’re an asshole but…” House trails off. “Just… don’t let it define you.”

Shooter nods once, his eyes lingering on House before rolling over and facing the wall. 

***

“I want to say goodbye to McGavin.” The words shock even him, yet they fly out of his mouth as he balances the backpack on his back.

“McGavin?” The intake nurse frowns, shuffling through stacks of paper. “Ah. He got moved back to Westford State a couple days ago.” 

House stands up straighter, leaning over the top of the desk to try and get a look at the papers. “He did?”

The nurse nods, closing the book and looking up at House. “Yeah. Said he was better off in solitary.” 

“What? But he was fine-”

“He had a pretty bad… incident after you moved rooms.” She frowns again, smiling and patting his hand. “It’s just better for everyone involved.” 

The walk to the bus stop is strange. In some ways, a step forward, and yet, he can’t help but feel like he’s leaving a part of his past behind. Shooter McGavin was broken, shattered, unlikely to ever see the light of day again. All because the better man won? 

He frowns, sitting down on the cold bench. Maybe in a few years time, it would be Shooter’s Tour.