darkdreamer | Used, Chapter 60

Hi, guys :) Got two updates for you today, hope you enjoy them, 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 60
Return

All he had to do was keep his head down, keep from drawing too much attention to himself – and he would be fine. If he didn’t attempt to make any connections with the other prisoners, then he couldn’t make any enemies, either. He would stay out of everyone else’s way, and hopefully everyone else would ignore him in turn.

That’s what Tritter told himself on the way to the prison that would be his place of residence for the rest of his life – if you could call an existence in a maximum security prison “life”. Tritter’s attorney had quit immediately following the trial, bluntly informing Tritter upon their last meeting that he had virtually no chance of winning any appeals he might seek, and that he had no interest whatsoever in wasting his time on anything of that nature.

Keeping to himself did not prove to be much of a challenge.

Tritter found himself immediately branded an outcast, unwelcome in any of the already established social groups within the prison. His career in law enforcement was the first strike against him, and his conviction for a sexual crime was the second.

The third strike against him, he discovered that first night.

He did not recognize any of the three men who were his cellmates – but one of them recognized him.

He had been sleeping for nearly an hour when he was roughly dragged from his bed and thrown against the wall at the far end of the cell. A hard, calloused hand covered his mouth, smothering his attempted cry for help, while other hands pinned him down, preventing him from struggling.

A vaguely familiar face, grinning, eyes glittering with malice, appeared in front of Tritter’s as his eyes began to adjust to the near-darkness of the room.

“Did you think I didn’t recognize you?” the man sneered in his face. “Did you think I’d forgotten what you did to me? How you put me here, on false charges of drug possession? I heard about what happened to you – how you got here – and I think it’s hilariously ironic that the next guy you tried to do the same thing to, is the one who put you in here.”

Overcome by panic when he realized that at least one of his attackers had a legitimate reason to want to harm him, Tritter tried to pull away from the restraining hands that held him, but there were simply too many of them. Instead, he found himself again slammed back against the wall.

“I was an innocent man when you got me thrown in here,” the man continued, his voice soft and bitterly triumphant. “But you’re not. We all know what you did to that doctor you tried to frame. It was all over the news, and yes, we actually do have televisions here. No, we know – you’re far from innocent.” He paused, his voice soft and chillingly certain as he continued, “And so am I… now.”

Tritter tried to fight them off, tried to escape and call for help as the man he had wronged, and the other two, held him down and assaulted him. They kept his face pressed into the thin pillow from his bed to muffle his cries, kept him pinned down against the floor as he was violently brutalized in much the same way as he and his cohorts had violated House; and promised – as he had promised House – that they would return to do it again, any time they chose to do so.

By morning, Tritter’s body – as well as his carefully preserved sense of dignity – were bruised and battered, and his illusions as to his chances of survival in prison had been shattered. Only one thought consumed him, as he made his way about his grim daily routine, trying his best to stay out of the way of anyone else who might have reason to attack him.

Only one idea filled his every thought.

Escape.

**************************

As the months slowly passed following the conclusion of the trial, House and his friends set about the difficult task of resuming some semblance of normal life.

He moved back into his old apartment and returned to work full time. Wilson moved in with him, at least on a temporary basis, in order to make the adjustment easier and less frightening; but the longer he was there, the more both men began to privately consider the idea of the arrangement becoming permanent.

House was becoming more comfortable, more at ease with himself. He still had moments of inexplicable terror, when an ordinary noise or an innocuous but sudden movement would startle him, and he would find himself fighting off a panic attack – but gradually, those moments became fewer and farther between. Each day that passed without such an incident – each patient successfully cured – brought House one baby step nearer to the confidence and security he had possessed before the assault.

The first time he cast an insulting joke in Chase’s direction during a differential, he was irritated to find that his team was pleased, rather than bothered by the return of his trademark sarcasm.

Three months after Tritter’s sentencing, Wilson was finishing his work in his office when House stopped by, wearing his coat, his backpack slung over his shoulder.

“I’m heading home,” he announced quietly. “See you there.”

Wilson frowned in surprise and concern as he rose to his feet and came around the desk to stop House before he could disappear down the hallway. “Wait, wait! House… are you sure? I’ll be done in about thirty minutes, and I can…”

“Wilson.” House’s voice was flat and unyielding. “Stop mothering me. I’ll be fine.” He paused, nodding to Wilson in dismissal as he added, “Leaving now.”

Wilson watched him go with a feeling of mingled worry and pride – then shook his head, laughing softly at himself as he returned to his desk.

House is right. Mothering is exactly what I’m doing.

Wilson’s smile faded away as he let out a sigh of resignation and returned to the seat behind his desk, resisting the urge to quickly gather his things and follow House down to the lobby and his car – because House hadn’t touched his bike since the attack – just to be sure he made it there safely.

And he’s right about something else, too. Sooner or later, he’s got to stand on his own. It’s a good thing that he’s trying to do that – even if at this point, that scares me almost as much as it scares him.

Wilson forced himself to finish his work, glancing anxiously at the clock every few minutes as he fought the impulse to leave early. Finally, exactly twenty-eight minutes after House left his office, Wilson closed his briefcase and put on his coat and scarf, hurriedly locking his office door before making his way down the hallway and toward the elevators.

He’s going to be just fine. It’s completely safe now.

Wilson tried to reassure himself as he crossed the lobby and headed toward the glass doors of the exit, swallowing back the sick knot of instinctive fear that he couldn’t seem to suppress. They had all spent so long under the constant threat of Tritter’s intimidation that even for Wilson, it was difficult to accept the fact that that threat was finally gone.

Wilson’s footsteps came to an abrupt halt a couple of feet outside the hospital, when he spied a lonely, forlorn figure sitting on a bench near the well-lit doors, narrow shoulders hunched against the cold, his head turned away and eyes downcast.

When House looked up at him – Wilson instantly understood.

House’s eyes were filled with disappointment and disgust, and bright with unshed tears of frustration. His hands in his pockets, his discarded backpack at his feet, spoke of despair and defeat. He held Wilson’s sympathetic gaze for a long moment before looking down again, swallowing hard as he picked up his backpack and rose to his feet to meet Wilson where he stood.

“Don’t talk,” he said softly, a quiet plea in the words. “Just walk.”

Wilson complied as he walked beside House, leading the way to his own car instead of House’s, which had remained in its parking spot for the last three weeks – ever since the last time House had thought he had gathered the courage to make his way alone. Wilson didn’t say anything until they were both in the car, and he had started the engine. As he pulled out into the street, he finally ventured a few reassuring words.

“You’ll get there, House.”

“Apparently not in this lifetime,” House sighed, staring grimly out the window. “And didn’t I order you very nicely to shut up?”

“Yes, but at the time I hadn’t said anything, so it didn’t count.”

House raised an eyebrow as he turned to cast a dubious look in Wilson’s direction. “Who made up that rule?”

“Me, just now.” Wilson smiled, not looking at House as he drove. His smile faded, his voice soft but filled with conviction as he repeated, “And you will get there. You just have to give yourself time.”

“Yeah,” House muttered, looking out the window again. “Your time. I hope you’re prepared to spend the rest of your life making sure there are no monsters lurking in any dark parking lot I happen to have to cross.”

“I am,” Wilson answered simply without hesitation.

House couldn’t bring himself to look at him this time, touched by the sincerity and devotion he heard in Wilson’s voice, and afraid to allow Wilson to see the emotion in his unguarded eyes. It was as if the assault had torn down all of House’s defensive walls, leaving them in rubble around him, and his emotions free to be seen by anyone who might look for them for longer than a moment.

“I’m here for you, House,” Wilson continued, still gazing out the windshield, knowing better than to look at House right now, well aware of how vulnerable he was feeling. “And I will be. No matter how long it takes.”

************************

“Hey. Nathan Moss.”

The guard glanced nervously in the direction of the inmate beckoning to him from a few yards down the row. He frowned, troubled when he saw that it was who he had suspected – the last person in this entire prison with whom he would willingly have spoken.

However, given the circumstances – he wasn’t sure he had a choice.

“Yeah, you,” Tritter sneered, waving him forward again. “Come here.”

Glancing up and down the aisle to see that no one else was around to observe the conversation, Nathan reluctantly made his way toward Tritter.

“What do you want?” he demanded harshly.

Both men knew the tone to be nothing more than a façade.

“We’ll get to that,” Tritter replied with a smirk. “First, let’s cover the obvious details so we don’t have to go over it again later.” His smile faded as he stated coldly, “You owe me.”

“I don’t owe you shit,” Nathan insisted with false defiance, the tremor in his voice betraying his fear. “You’re crazy.”

“You’re only here because of me, and you know it,” Tritter countered, his voice soft, but commanding as ever. “Well,” he amended after a moment with a casual half-shrug, “actually, you’d still be here. You’d just be on the other side of the bars.”

“Shut up,” Nathan hissed, looking around anxiously again. “That was years ago…”

“Yeah, yeah… that was then,” Tritter agreed, rolling his eyes impatiently. “And this is now, Nathan. And it’s time to pay up.”

“You think I want to put this job in jeopardy?” Nathan shot back in anger and restrained outrage. “I’m not the same man I was back then. I have a family now…”

“Yeah. Brilliant, beautiful wife, and two gorgeous little girls. I know.” Tritter’s smile widened, a cruel gleam in his eyes when he caught the flash of fear on Nathan’s face. “How is Susan these days? And the twins – Marcia and Sophia. They’re in… what? Second grade?”

Nathan’s face paled with fear. “How… how do you…?”

“I know a lot of things.” Tritter smirked. “And a lot of people. Most of them are outside these walls. You’re not the only guy who owes me a favor or two, Nathan.”

Nathan swallowed back a sick wave of nausea that threatened to overcome him, looking away before finally muttering in helpless frustration, “What do you want from me? There’s only so much I can… can…”

“Shut up,” Tritter ordered coldly, pausing and then smiling in gratification when the guard complied, despite the apparent power discrepancy in his favor. “And I’ll tell you."

TBC...

/>
Accident Attorneys

Current Mood: anxious

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

djfavorite.livejournal.com

I should have known you would do something like this. Another great chapter.

(Honestly, I don't think you want to let go of this story. I don't blame you if that's the case. It's really good!)

From:

Used, Chapter 60

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags