darkdreamer | Moonlight, Chapter 3

Hi, guys :)

Here's the latest update of Moonlight, in which a few more pieces of the puzzle are revealed... hope you enjoy it :)

*hugs*
DoS

Title: Moonlight
Beta:

andi88
Pairing: none really, House/Wilson friendship, some House/Cuddy friendship
Rating: PG-13 to R in places
Warnings: violence, scary themes
Summary: Following Amber's death, House is afraid that Wilson will never be able to forgive him -- but Wilson's real reaction is far more frigthtening and disturbing than he ever would have expected. Wilson wants to hold on to the only meaningful relationship left in his life -- by any means necessary.

Chapter 3

By the following morning, House was nearly delirious with pain and exhaustion.

His leg had not allowed him to sleep, screaming its protest at him throughout the night. The pain had gradually worked its way from his thigh down the entire length of his leg, and by now, his every muscle was taut and trembling with the tension of dealing with it all night long. He thought he remembered screaming at one point, even calling out Wilson’s name, desperate for some sort of relief.

But of course, no one could hear him.

By the time Wilson walked in the door, House barely had the strength to move or make a sound anymore. Desperation drove him to raise his head, however, blinking against the light until Wilson’s face came into a hazy near-focus. The words barely formed on his lips, and he couldn’t find the breath to give them sound.

“Please… my leg… please…”

Wilson stood there in the doorway for a moment, eyes wide with shock at the state in which he found his friend. He hurriedly set down the tray he carried, rushing to House’s side and sitting down on the side of the bed. House cringed at the shifting of his agonized leg, letting out a weak, piteous sound of pain. Wilson drew in a sharp breath, a regretful grimace twisting his features as he reached into the inside pocket of House’s jacket, hurriedly retrieving the orange vial inside.

“My God, House, I am so sorry!”

Wilson wrapped his arms around House’s torso, shifting his body upwards and bracing his back against the headboard, wincing at the pained groan of protest House made in response to the motion.

“I’m sorry, House, I’m so sorry…”

Wilson kept muttering helpless apologies as he rose momentarily to take a plastic cup from the tray he’d brought into the room, then took both the pills and the cup back to the bed.

“Here,” he murmured, placing one hand behind House’s head to support it as he brought the pills to his lips. “Here you go…”

Wilson followed the pills with a sip of the orange juice in the cup, tipping it carefully into House’s mouth and waiting for him to swallow the Vicodin before offering him another sip of juice. House swiftly drained the glass, which only barely took the edge off the desperate thirst he had developed during the many hours he had spent chained in this room without food or water.

When the cup was empty, Wilson removed his hand, allowing House’s head to fall back against the headboard again. House closed his eyes, struggling to catch his breath before murmuring words of instinctive gratitude born of his former desperation.

“Thank you… thank you…”

“I’ll be right back,” Wilson said, rising to his feet again, his brow furrowed in a guilty, regretful frown. “I’m going to get you some more to drink…” He paused in the doorway, swallowing hard as he stared at his suffering friend through troubled, anguished eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated before disappearing, closing the door behind him.

By the time Wilson returned with a second glass of juice, the Vicodin was starting to kick in, and House was sitting up, appearing more alert and less disoriented than he had when Wilson had left. A flash of wary apprehension passed through his wide eyes at Wilson’s entrance, and Wilson tried to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach caused by that look.

He placed the glass on the tray with the food he had brought, explaining, “We’ll save some for your breakfast,” before coming to sit on the side of House’s bed again. “How are you feeling?”

House gave him a look of indignant disgust, rolling his eyes as he retorted, “Oh, about like I’ve been kidnapped, bashed in the head with my own cane, then chained up and left without any sort of pain relief for over twenty-four hours.”

Wilson’s expression darkened with frustration as House’s words reinforced the guilt he was already feeling. He rose to his feet without a word, heading toward the door.

“Wait,” House protested, his tone softening with barely restrained desperation. “Don’t… don’t leave again, okay? I… I’m sorry…”

The word came with great difficulty, as House was fairly certain that he was not the one who owed an apology at the moment – but he couldn’t stand the idea of being left alone for another undetermined number of hours, with nothing for company but his own panicked thoughts.

“Just… just stay,” he pleaded softly. “Just stay and let’s… talk for a while… okay?”

Wilson hesitated, glaring down at House for a moment in clear resentment, before relenting and slowly, reluctantly sitting down again. As he did, he pulled the small table on which he had placed the breakfast tray closer to the bed so that it was within his reach.

“Don’t try anything,” Wilson warned as he took a key from his pocket and moved to unfasten the cuff around House’s left wrist. “I don’t think you want me to have to drug you, but I will if you make me.”

“No, I… I won’t,” House assured him, swallowing hard, watching as the iron shackle fell away from his sore, aching wrist.

Wilson carefully placed the breakfast tray on House’s lap, and House noted that its contents were irresistibly tempting, given the fact that it had been nearly a full twenty-four hours since he had eaten anything. Wilson was apparently trying to win him over, as he appeared to have gone all out, serving House an elaborate and delicious-looking meal. However, House also noticed that there was no knife provided, and the fork was plastic, as was the glass, recently refilled with orange juice.

Despite his hunger, House hesitated, glancing dubiously between the food and Wilson, uncomfortably aware that in his clearly unhealthy state of mind, Wilson might have mixed some kind of drug into the food.

Noting the uncertainty and suspicion in House’s expression, Wilson rolled his eyes with a weary sigh.

“I have no reason to drug your food, House.”

House didn’t respond, just raised a single brow as he continued staring at Wilson. Wilson held his gaze for a moment, then tried a different tactic. His tone was chillingly calm and matter-of-fact as he pointed out an uncomfortable truth.

“Besides, if I wanted to drug you, I wouldn’t have to mix it into your food. If I wanted you drugged – you’d be drugged, one way or the other. So… it really doesn’t matter if you eat or not… does it?”

House directed a sullen glare at Wilson, a part of him wanting to reject the food just to spite Wilson and his twisted good intentions. After a moment, however, his ravenous hunger got the better of him, and he reluctantly picked up the plastic fork from the tray in his left hand. He frowned at the awkward way it felt, holding it in the wrong hand, and looked up at Wilson again.

“You know, this might be a little easier if I was a southpaw. Or, you know – if you’d unchained the right hand.”

Wilson gave him a knowing smile, shaking his head slightly. “I did unchain the right hand, House – meaning, the hand that leaves you at just a little bit of a disadvantage. I’m not stupid.”

“No, just insane…”

House muttered the words too softly for Wilson to quite make them out, stabbing at the omelet on his plate and shoving a forkful into his mouth. He made short work of the meal, doing his best not to openly take any pleasure in it for Wilson’s benefit. He briefly considered trying to use the fork as a weapon, but after a few moments’ consideration decided that the only thing worse than dangerously-insane-Wilson was, quite possibly, dangerously-insane-Wilson who’d just been stabbed in the arm with a fork.

When House was finished eating, Wilson took the tray away, rising and heading for the door again.

“Wait.” House hated the anxious note of desperation in his own voice, as much as the empty feeling of fear at the thought of Wilson’s leaving again, for who knew how long. “Where are you going?”

Wilson gave him a reassuring smile, annoyingly pleased with House’s interest, as he gently replied, “I’m coming right back. I’m just going to get the first aid kit. I’ve got to take care of your head.”

Once Wilson had gone, House immediately took advantage of the one free wrist afforded him and tugged at the shackle holding his right hand to the wall, trying to figure out a way to get it off – with no success. He scanned the room hurriedly for any sign of a potential weapon within his reach, and his heart sank when he found nothing.

Wilson’s insane scheme had apparently been very well thought out.

Wilson was back within minutes. When he opened the door, House looked up at him guiltily, trying not to look as if he had been trying to plot his escape.

Wilson knew him too well.

“There’s no point, House,” he advised him in a voice of weary patience. “There’s no way out.”

He set the first aid kit down and cautiously approached the bed again, his mouth set in a thin, taut line of determination as he reached for House’s free wrist. House immediately pulled away in alarm, shaking his head.

“No, you… you don’t have to…”

“House…” Wilson’s voice held a warning note.

“Look at my wrists,” House cut him off urgently, holding up his raw, abraded wrist for Wilson’s inspection. “I thought you didn’t want to hurt me. Are you seriously going to put that back on when my wrists already look like this?”

There was a flash of stubborn anger in Wilson’s eyes as he retorted, “That’s your own fault, House. If you hadn’t struggled so much…”

“I won’t fight you, okay? I won’t try anything. Just… don’t put it back on right away. Okay? I’ll just sit here and not do anything, and we can just… just talk for a while…”

Wilson let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head slowly.

“What?” House couldn’t help sounding a little defensive.

“You have never… wanted… to ‘just talk’ with me before,” Wilson declared. “Looks like my plan might be working already.”

House felt a little sick at that observation, his mouth dry with apprehension as Wilson took his hand and pulled his injured wrist closer to examine it. Wilson frowned, drawing in a soft hiss of breath through his teeth at the painful appearance of the abused limb and shaking his head in disapproval.

Holding onto House’s arm just above the wrist to prevent his moving it, Wilson reached into the first aid kit and took out a tube of ointment, using his teeth to open it and squeezing some out onto the wound. A moment of tense silence fell between them as he carefully worked over House’s wrist, until House finally broke it in a quiet, thoughtful voice.

“Then you do actually have a plan. So… what is it?” He shook his head slightly, at a loss. “You’re just going to keep me here forever? As your… your prisoner? But for my own protection, of course.” There was a sharp note of bitter sarcasm to his last few words.

“Forever… but not as my prisoner. Hopefully.” Wilson replied as he wound a thick layer of soft, white gauze around the treated wound. “I want things to get… better, House. I want you to be able to be… to be happy here.”

“To be happy, a person has to be free, Wilson,” House reminded him, studying his friend’s reaction to his words as he spoke them. “You can’t just… do this and say it’s for my own good, and expect me to like it…”

“I don’t expect you to like it,” Wilson retorted softly as he raised House’s bandaged wrist toward the open shackle again. “Yet.”

House’s eyes widened in alarm when he saw that Wilson meant to chain his wrist again, and he tried to pull away, desperate to retain what little sense of freedom he had remaining to him. Wilson closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw set with frustration, before opening them and locking his calmly warning gaze onto House’s.

“If you insist on fighting me, House,” he said softly, “I can make sure that you can’t.”

Remembering the hypodermic needle with which Wilson had threatened him before, House froze, a sick sensation of fear settling in his stomach. Wilson raised a single eyebrow in a silent question, one hand gripping House’s wrist, the other holding the shackle, as if waiting for House’s approval. Swallowing hard, House shook his head slowly, eyes lowered in defeat.

They both knew that he actually had no choice.

Wilson locked his wrist into the iron cuff, then took out the key again and unlocked his right wrist, frowning when he found it in much the same condition as the left had been. He set about treating it as well, and House found that in spite of his shock and outrage at this entire situation, he couldn’t help feeling just a little grateful for the relief to his raw, aching wrists.

After a few moments of silently watching Wilson work, he broke the silence again, seeking whatever answers he could gather, in the hopes that something might help him find a way to escape.

“So… you just… bought a house? Just to service this little plan of yours?”

“That wasn’t the only reason.” Wilson’s voice was soft and sad, and he looked away as he continued uncomfortably, “I was telling the truth before. I really couldn’t stay in Amber’s apartment anymore. I got the house first, and then the plan. Even this panic room was already installed when I bought it.” He paused, shrugging slightly as he admitted, “Altering it so it locks on the outside… setting it up like something resembling a proper bedroom… those were changes I made for the sake of my plan.”

House was quiet for a moment, taking Wilson’s words in, feeling a cold sense of dread at the amount of planning and forethought that had gone into Wilson’s chilling scheme. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and cautious, as if he was well aware that Wilson might be angered by his words.

“It won’t be long before people start looking for me.”

Wilson smiled, utterly unperturbed, as he finished wrapping House’s wrist and reached for the second cuff. The quiet certainty in his voice sent a shudder down House’s spine.

“No, they won’t.”

House’s voice was barely audible, trembling slightly, as he finally ventured to ask, “Why not?”

“I typed up a letter of resignation in your name and left it in Cuddy’s box yesterday, and attached a handwritten note letting her know that you were going to stay with your parents for a while – but not before packing up your apartment. Don’t worry. I saved your stuff. Most of it’s in storage. Some of it’s here. When… things get a little better, I’ll make sure you get it back.” Wilson paused, holding House’s gaze to gauge his reaction as he continued, “I handed in my own resignation a couple of days ago and told Cuddy I was moving out of state. I think she was expecting it already, all things considered, so it won’t seem strange to her at all.” He shrugged slightly, a smug smile beginning to form on his lips. “She got your resignation a couple of days after mine. She can only assume you handed it in once you found out that I quit. I think the whole thing will look pretty natural to her, don’t you?”

House looked away, unwilling to admit how frighteningly thorough Wilson’s plan seemed to be.

“I covered all my bases, House,” Wilson stated with quiet satisfaction. “No one will even guess that anything is wrong.”

“Until my parents eventually call up the hospital looking for me, and Cuddy realizes that I didn’t move back home,” House pointed out, the tremor in his voice deepening with his rising fears.

“Which should be about… never.” Wilson laughed sadly. “House… your parents aren’t going to call Cuddy. If they can’t get in touch with you, they’ll call me. And don’t think I won’t have a story ready for them, because I will.”

House felt a wave of hopeless desperation wash over him as he tried to find the mistake in Wilson’s careful method… and found nothing that seemed to work in his advantage. He swallowed hard, his throat painfully dry, then drew in a deep, shuddering breath, struggling for control of his own mounting panic.

“You don’t have to do this, Wilson.” He tried again, an urgent, pleading look in his eyes as he searched Wilson’s face for any sign of pity or remorse. “I get it – I do. I know you’re just trying to protect me. If you’ll just… take these chains off… I won’t try to run away, Wilson. I can’t, can I? You’ve taken my cane, so I can barely limp, let alone run…”

House’s words trailed off as Wilson began to laugh softly, shaking his head with a knowing smirk. “House,” he reminded gently, “I know you too well to fall for that. Do you think I’m stupid?”

As he spoke, he reached both hands toward House’s head, one coming to rest at the back of his neck, the other pressing gently at the area just below the broken skin on his forehead. House instinctively flinched, his frayed nerves causing him to expect a blow, despite the fact that Wilson did not seem particularly inclined to hurt him.

Wilson found his reaction upsetting.

“House, how many times do I have to tell you that I’m not going to hurt you?” he snapped. “I’m trying to help you…”

“Yeah,” House retorted in disgust. “I’m so sorry if I don’t find the fact that you’re playing doctor on the head wound you gave me particularly comforting.”

“Damn it, House,” Wilson muttered in a dark, warning tone as he finished taping gauze over the relatively minor gash on House’s forehead. “That’s it. I’m done. I thought you wanted to talk, but all you want to do is insult me and put down my every attempt to help you. I’m out of here. I’ll see you later.”

He threw the first aid supplies angrily back into the box, slamming it shut and heading toward the door.

“Wait… where are you going?” House asked, hating the uncertainty in his voice.

“Work.” Wilson gave him a small, taut smile as he opened the door. “I’ve got a new job at another hospital – far enough away from PPTH so as not to arouse suspicions.”

“So… you’re going to leave me alone for an entire shift? Chained up here with no food or water or medicine or anything?” House tried not to think about how pitiful he had to sound.

“You’ll live.” Wilson’s tone was cold and stony, his irritation with House drowning out whatever sympathy he might have felt. After a moment he sighed, relenting slightly as he added, “I’ll come home on my lunch break to check on you. You’ll be fine for a few short hours.”

He paused in the doorway, drawing in a deep breath, hesitating before adding softly, “I realize this is difficult. I’m sorry. But one day you’ll understand, and… maybe even come to the point where you actually appreciate what I’m doing for you.”

As Wilson closed and locked the door behind him, House fought back an overwhelming wave of despair… desperately hoping that he would never come to that point.

TBC...

/>
New Jersey Estate Planning Lawyer

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From:

chaoskir.livejournal.com

Wilson is so naiv when he thinks that PPTH won't notice that he is working in another hospital and sooner or later someone (maybe a member of House's staff or another doctor or Cuddy or a patient from the past will ask him uncomfortable questions about House and than....

Well, Wilson needs a shrink and how he thinks House is able to pee? Or to do other things like that? And take a vicodin or scratch himself.

Poor, poor House and sick, sick, mindsick, insane, mad Wilson.

Thanks for sharing!

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Moonlight, Chapter 3

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