darkdreamer | Used, Chapter 53

Hi, guys :) Here's chapter 53 of Used, which is pretty intense, though not *too* disturbing I don't think -- hope you all enjoy it, please let me know :)

*hugs*
DoS

Title: Used
Beta:

misanthropicobs
Rating: R
Pairing: House/Wilson/Cuddy friendship, slight Wilson/OFC
Warnings: implied and explicit non-con, violence and non-con of a flashback/memory sort, mild language, general angst and trauma and darkness
Summary: One night leaving the hospital, a violent attack leaves House devastated and broken. In the aftermath, Wilson and Cuddy struggle to find a way to help him heal -- while House fights just to find a way to survive.

Chapter 53
Intimidated

"Please state your name and occupation for the court."

"My name is Jenna Leander, and I'm a private investigator."

Brooke paced slowly in front of the witness stand as she went on in a calm, polite tone of cool professionalism. "And how do you know Dr. Gregory House?"

"He's a client of mine," Jenna replied simply. "I'm employed by him."

"How and for what purpose did he employ your services, Ms. Leander?"

"His friend -- Dr. Wilson -- contacted me and explained that Dr. House had been attacked by at least one member of the police force, and they were afraid of coming forward without enough evidence -- afraid that if they did, they wouldn't be able to get a conviction, and Dr. House would be in even greater danger."

Brooke nodded thoughtfully, acknowledging the reasoning of that explanation. "And what did you uncover during the course of your investigation?"

"Well," Jenna began cautiously, "I came across other individuals who'd crossed paths with Detective Tritter in past legal proceedings, and were later injured under suspicious circumstances. I interviewed two of those individuals, and one of them -- one Mr. Alamo -- confirmed to me that Michael Tritter was indeed the person responsible for his 'accident'..."

"Objection!" the defense attorney immediately declared, rising to his feet. "There is no evidence linking my client to the case the witness is referring to -- which is already closed -- and therefore the allegations of the alleged victim in that other case are irrelevant."

"Sustained," the judge agreed, fixing a severely warning look on Jenna. "Will the witness please restrict your answers to information pertaining to this case only."

"Yes," Brooke smoothly agreed as well, nodding as she gave Jenna an encouraging smile. "Let's stay focused on the startlingly clear evidence you managed to obtain in this case." She turned back toward the judge to add, "The state would like to submit our evidence Exhibit B -- a videotape obtained through the professional experience of this witness."

A monitor was brought in on a wheeled cart, and Brooke took the videotape from its protective plastic covering and inserted it into the recorder. It had been edited to begin at the moment when Tritter had caught House outside his apartment, and began with a clear visual image of House's front door.

A moment later, a voice that was muffled but clearly distinguishable as Tritter's spoke, followed by House's trembling but distinct words, filled with unmistakable panic.

"Please... please, don't..."

"Shut up."

The harsh, menacing command was clearly audible, and the camera abruptly jerked, shaking slightly, before coming back into focus. Although the camera angle made it impossible for those in the courtroom to tell exactly what had just happened, the movement was clearly violent and outside the control of the camera's wearer.

House remembered with perfect clarity -- Tritter grabbing him by the throat, choking him, shoving him forward and trapping him against his own front door, as his large, rough hands roamed over House’s body with sickening intimacy… a prelude to the further trauma and abuse that would follow once he was forced to allow his attacker into his own home.

He lowered his eyes, unable to look at the screen – the slightly skewed version of his own perspective in his memories – his face flushing with shame as the judge, jury, and audience witnessed his abuse and humiliation. His mouth was dry, his heart fluttering like a tiny bird trapped in his chest, as a deep, roiling sickness rose up from his stomach to his throat.

He tried to shut out the painfully familiar voice, aware despite its muffled quality that Tritter was ordering him into his apartment, to reset the security system, threatening him with further suffering and death if he failed to obey completely.

Brooke paused the tape a few minutes into it to ask Jenna quietly, "Ms. Leander, how was this videotape recorded?"

"In my line of work, we call it a button cam," Jenna replied. "It's a tiny recording device about the size and shape of a button, which can be worn by someone without anyone else realizing that they're wearing it."

"And who was wearing the camera that took this video?"

Jenna's eyes were solemn and troubled as she glanced between the video and House before returning Brooke's gaze and answering, "Dr. House."

"Did you personally witness the situation when this recording was taken?"

"Yes. I was present, in a closed room in Dr. House's apartment, so I was able to partially witness what took place from the moment the two of them entered the apartment."

"And by the two of them, you mean Dr. House, and... who else? Whose is the second voice in the recording?"

"The defendant, Mr. Tritter."

"You said you were in a closed room in the apartment while the recorded scene took place. Were you able to personally see or hear any of what happened?"

"I didn't personally see it, and I wasn't able to hear very clearly at times, but I did catch some of it," Jenna explained with a tentative nod.

"At this time I'll continue to play the video..." Brooke turned toward the judge as she spoke. "... and Ms. Leander, if you would please clarify for us what you heard, on the parts of the audio that are unclear."

The tape was played again, and while House's words were clear throughout, there were places on the tape where Tritter's words were muffled or indistinct, due to his position in relation to the recording device, or the unintentional jostling of the camera that was the result of his rough manhandling of House.

Though Tritter's words were not always distinguishable, however, the violence of his actions was unmistakable, as was the distinct panic in House's trembling, breathless voice as he begged in tears for his life and the lives of his friends. Several audible gasps nearly drowned out the thankfully clear voice on the tape as Tritter tauntingly detailed the brutalities he had already committed against House, deliberately throwing in his face the apparent absence of any cameras to record his "confession".

Brooke watched with subdued satisfaction in her eyes as the jury visibly tensed when Tritter choked House, slapped him in the face, forced him to his knees on the floor with chillingly vicious threats of degradation and abuse, demanding his continued silence about what had been done to him already.

When the tape was finished, Brooke just quietly surveyed the expressions of shock and horror on the faces of the jury, before glancing toward the defense with a curt nod and quietly relinquishing the floor.

"Your witness."

The challenging tone of her voice dared the defense to find a way to turn such damning evidence on its head. The defense attorney rose and made his way toward Jenna, a smug expression of dubious accusation on his face.

"Do you make a practice in your line of work, Ms. Leander, of recording individuals without their prior knowledge or consent?"

Jenna frowned. "Not as a general rule," she conceded, "but in some cases it's necessary..."

"Is it considered good ethics to deliberately set up a situation in which a person might be expected to act in a certain way, in order to then record that situation and use it to condemn the individual in question? Isn't that actually considered to be entrapment?"

"In these particular circumstances," Jenna replied, one eyebrow raised speculatively, "no. Unless Dr. House walking into his own home alone is considered the 'right circumstances' to coerce your client into acts of sadistic terrorism."

A soft hum of conversation filled the courtroom for a few moments, and the judge banged her gavel a couple of times to restore order. When the room was quiet again, she looked toward Jenna with reluctant disapproval.

"Ms. Leander, please just answer the questions put to you. The colorful commentary is unnecessary."

Jenna nodded as she went on. "All right. To answer the question, then -- the recording was completely within legal and ethical boundaries. According to the law, anyone can have as many cameras as they choose within their own home, anywhere in their home. The incident in question took place within Dr. House's apartment, and he was the one wearing the camera."

"You said you couldn't clearly hear much of the conversation between the two people in the next room, is that correct?"

"Yes," Jenna confirmed with quiet confidence. "That's true."

"Well, in that case, how can you be certain that it was my client you heard at all? Did you see him there?"

"No, but..."

"Had you ever heard Mr. Tritter's voice before?"

"No, I hadn't, but there's no reason to think..."

"Isn't it a convenient coincidence that the person on that recording -- presumed to be my client -- just happened to make such a thorough and detailed ‘confession’ of what Dr. House alleges to have happened on the night he was attacked? Isn't it just possible that the person you heard in the next room with Dr. House wasn't my client at all?"

Jenna frowned, shaking her head in confused, disgusted denial of the defense attorney's proposition. "Then, who...?"

"Dr. House has an established reason to hold a grudge against my client. Isn't it possible that he used you to gather this so-called ‘evidence’ against my client -- this evidence which conveniently includes no clear shot of Mr. Tritter's face? Isn't it possible that Dr. House hired someone with a somewhat similar voice to simply play the part?"

"Possible, maybe, but ridiculously unlikely..."

"But possible." The defense attorney latched onto the word with a satisfied nod, as he turned back toward his seat. "So... you didn't clearly see or hear anything the night the recording was made, or record anything that conclusively proves that the man in the recording is my client at all, or even uncover anything to link him to the attack on Dr. House, during the course of your investigation."

Jenna opened her mouth to respond, but the defense attorney addressed the judge before she could.

"No further questions, Your Honor."

"Damn," House whispered, wide eyes locked onto the defense attorney, though his dread-filled words were directed toward Wilson beside him. "That actually makes sense."

"No, it doesn't," Wilson argued in a low, terse whisper. "It's a lie."

"But I could have. For all the jury knows..."

"We have a vocal expert that will say otherwise," Wilson reminded him gently, reaching out a hand to rest lightly on House's shoulder in a subtle show of support.

"Will the state call its next witness?"

House looked at Wilson through stricken, panicked eyes, swallowing hard before countering in a hoarse, choked whisper, "What if they have an expert who says it's possible?"

Wilson didn't have time to give him a reassuring answer, because at that moment, Brooke returned to the front of the room to call her next witness -- who was currently falling apart, in a desperate state of panic.

"The state calls Dr. Gregory House to the stand."

House looked up at her, startled, too shaken by the events of the morning so far to be ready to hear his own name called. He swallowed hard, the action painful as his mouth was dry, his lips trembling. He bit his lower lip, squaring his shoulders with an effort as he struggled to steady himself.

"It's all right," Wilson whispered, squeezing his shoulder before removing his hand to allow House to rise. "You can do this."

"Just tell the truth," Eve advised from his other side with gentle concern in her voice. "You'll be fine..."

At that moment, House wished they would both just be silent and leave him alone.

He wished the entire world would just leave him alone.

He wished he could disappear.

Numb, moving only because some part of his mind recognized that it was what he was supposed to do at that time, House rose to his feet with difficulty, making his way with slow, halting steps toward the witness stand. He sat down, leaning his cane against the stand beside him, then braced his hands against the barrier in front of him, struggling against the rising wave of nausea, the prickling flashes of color at the edges of his vision as his breath quickened with the impending panic attack he was fighting off.

"Please state your name and occupation for the court," Brooke requested, her voice soft and patient, reassuring.

House barely noticed. His voice was low, barely audible, when he forced himself to respond, eyes focused on the grain of the wooden bar in front of him.

"G-gregory House. I work at... I'm... Head of Diagnostics at... Princeton... Princeton Plainsboro... Teaching Hospital."

And that was the easy one... Get it together, you useless moron...

"When did you first meet the defendant, Michael Tritter?"

Brooke’s question was delivered in a gentle, cautious voice, and House recognized with gratitude that she was attempting to start him off slowly, to ease him into the more difficult parts of his testimony to come. Still, he could feel his heart thundering in his chest, the blood roaring in his ears, and he struggled to focus on the answer to the question she had just given him.

"He was... a patient, in the clinic... at the hospital where I work. He... came in with a condition he... he wanted me to treat..."

House hesitated, swallowing hard, his breath catching in his throat. He lowered his head, eyes closed, as he tried to think of anything but Tritter's sharp, piercing gaze that he could feel, locked onto him in silent, subtle menace.

"Can you describe for the court what happened during your first meeting with the defendant?" Brooke prompted him gently.

House drew in a deep, shaky breath, eyes still focused downward. He tried to summon his courage, his pride -- willed himself to find the strength to make eye contact with Brooke, the jury, anyone -- but all he could think was that they knew. They knew what had been done to him, knew how ruined and broken and thoroughly defiled he was. He couldn't bring himself to raise his eyes any higher than the wooden bar in front of him, or his voice above a hoarse, hesitant near-whisper.

"I... I knew by looking at him... what was... what was wrong..."

"Your Honor," the defense attorney interrupted, rising to his feet and speaking with a note of false sympathy in his apologetic voice, "could you please ask the witness to speak up a bit? I don't believe the jury can hear his testimony."

The judge frowned with disapproval, but gave House a rueful half-nod of concession. "Please do try to speak up," she advised him gently. "The jury needs to hear what you have to say."

House nodded once, his head lowered, as he replied in a voice that was only slightly louder, "Yes, Your Honor."

"So... you made an immediate diagnosis of Mr. Tritter's illness..." Brooke prompted.

House nodded again. "But... he wasn't... wasn't satisfied. He wanted me to... to run some tests, and I... basically..." House cleared his throat, his face flushing with self-consciousness as he thought of the jury's disapproval. "... called him an idiot. Told him... I'd already told him... what was... wrong..."

His voice trailed off, and House fought off his mounting panic as he remembered that relatively innocuous incident in the clinic, his mind focusing on the details of Tritter's face, his voice, his deceptively calm manner, and translating those images into the later, more nightmarish memories that now haunted his every waking moment.

"Dr. House?" Brooke spoke softly, and he looked up at her, startled. "What happened next?"

House drew in a deep breath of cool air, trying to combat the sick sensation of nausea in his throat, looking away from the concerned frown on Brooke's face -- and accidentally directing his gaze toward Tritter, for just a fraction of an instant, before he swiftly looked back down again at the bar in front of him.

That fraction of an instant was more than enough.

Tritter's face bore a calm, controlled expression with just the barest hint of a smile that probably no one but House perceived. In the moment when their eyes met, House saw a knowing gleam of derision and cold satisfaction in Tritter's ice blue eyes -- and a promise of retaliation for the very words House was struggling to find the courage to speak.

His heart leapt up into his throat, and all at once he couldn't breathe. The sparks of color at the edges of his vision that had momentarily receded now returned, and House felt dizzy, sick, the world spinning around him.

"Dr. House?"

Brooke stepped closer to him, her frown deepening with the knowledge that something might actually be wrong. House flinched at the quick movement, biting back a cry of alarm, his hands twitching on the bar in an aborted gesture of self-defense, before he lowered his head to rest in his trembling fingers, gasping for breath.

He shook his head, eyes closed, desperate to shut it all out.

"I can't," he whispered desperately. "I'm sorry... I can't..."

Wilson half-rose in his seat, uncertain as to what he should do, as the judge turned toward House with a voice that was stern but compassionate.

"Dr. House," she informed him gently, "if you can't testify... we'll have to move on. Now... I'm sure that's not what you..." She paused, rephrasing with slow, cautious emphasis, "I'm sure you want the opportunity to tell this court your side of what happened."

"I can't," House repeated, fighting back tears, shaking his head in despair, unable to return her gaze. "I'm sorry... I just... just can't..."

The judge frowned, troubled, opening her mouth to speak, but unsure of what to say.

"Your Honor," the defense attorney said, tentatively drawing her attention.

House glanced up at the man nervously, just in time to see Tritter settling back into his seat, and knew from the slight smile on Tritter's face that whatever the attorney was about to say was not his own idea. He looked down again, one hand cradling his aching, spinning head, the other clenching tightly around the handle of his cane.

"Your Honor, the defense recognizes that, despite my client's innocence, Dr. House has nevertheless endured a horribly traumatic experience. We would not be opposed to a brief recess in order to allow him to prepare himself to testify."

The judge frowned with suspicion, but nodded slowly, her shoulders slumping slightly with relief. "Yes, a recess is in order. Dr. House -- I'd advise you take this time to think very seriously about the situation, and your part in it." She faced the court again as she stated, louder, "This court is in recess. We will reconvene in two hours."

House stared at the defense attorney, disbelieving of the apparently compassionate request Tritter had asked him to make -- well aware that it could not possibly be as kind and altruistic an offer as Tritter wanted everyone to believe. He ventured another glance at Tritter himself, who raised a brow in a silent challenge -- and all at once, House understood.

Even now, Tritter wanted him to know that he was still calling the shots, still able to either reduce his defenses to rubble, or bestow mercy -- all the while subtly mocking his terror and brokenness, and taking pleasure from it.

As the onlookers began to file out into the rest of the building, House's entire body was shaken by violent tremors. Still, he wrenched himself out of the chair and to his feet, stumbling in his hurry to escape the witness stand and make his way down the hallway.

Wilson made it to the end of the aisle at the same time that House passed him, and reached out to catch his arm with an urgency born of concern.

"House... wait..."

"Don't."

House choked out the strangled protest, yanking his arm away from Wilson so hard that he nearly lost his balance and fell over, before lurching away from his friend and pushing his way through the crowd in the aisle and out into the courthouse. In blind desperation, House rushed toward the men's room, barely making it into the handicapped stall before collapsing painfully to his knees on the floor in front of the toilet -- and vomiting up the contents of his clenched, aching stomach.

Game over...

The thought echoed dully in his exhausted mind, numb with despair and resignation. He knew that the recess wouldn’t make any difference, as far as he was concerned. Tritter would still be there when court resumed – and House would still be too thoroughly destroyed to stand up to him, even surrounded by hundreds of witnesses.

He wins.

TBC...