Used, chapter 3    The House Fan Fiction Archive     Home

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  Used, chapter 3 
 by Dreamsofspike  

 By the time Wilson returned pushing the gurney, House appeared to be
sound asleep, lying down on the sofa. He frowned, biting his lower lip as
he considered his options. He hated to wake him when he had just fallen
asleep, but he knew better than to think that he could lift him onto the
gurney by himself. 

Positioning the gurney beside the sofa, he crouched down in front of his
friend, reaching out a hand to gently shake his shoulder.

"House...come on, I need you to wake up for a minute..."

House awakened with a start, cringing back away from Wilson's hand in a
way that made the younger doctor wince. "What...? Don't..." he mumbled,
his breath catching in his throat.

"Just me, it's all right..." Wilson soothed him softly, doing his best to
ignore the implications of House's half-awake words, at least for the
moment. He had to get him to a room and get his physical needs taken care
of before he started thinking about the other types of injuries House
would be dealing with. "I just need you to get up on the gurney, okay? I
can't..."

"Of course it's just you, Nurse Nancy," House grumbled as he struggled to
sit up. "Who else would it be?" The sting was taken from his smart remark
by the groan of pain he bit back as he sank back down onto the sofa,
unable to pull himself up. He glanced grudgingly up at Wilson, a sheepish,
slightly sullen expression on his face as he realized that he was going to
need his friend's help even to get up at all, and perhaps his mockery had
been a bit...premature. "A little help, here?"

"Nurse Nancy to the rescue," Wilson muttered, sliding an arm cautiously
around House's shoulders and helping him to sit up, moving slowly so as to
jar his injuries as little as possible. "Okay...let's get you on your
feet, now. It's just for a few seconds..."

House flinched, one arm bracing against his injured stomach, as Wilson
bore his weight and helped him get to his feet. "Can't...can't do this..."

"Yes, you can." 

Wilson kept his voice mild, gentle, as he turned his friend around so that
his back was to the gurney, and helped him first to sit on its edge, and
then to lie down on his side. 

"There we go, see? That wasn't so hard."

"You wouldn't really know, would you?" House retorted. "And I'm not dying,
so quit talking to me like I'm one of your five-year-old patients."

"Quit acting like a five-year-old patient and maybe I'll get the message."

House just glared up at him as Wilson carefully drew a thin hospital
blanket up over his friend's shoulders, careful to cover the damage,
leaving the top of the sheet bunched near House's face, to shield his
features from any curious eyes they might happen to pass in the hallway.
This particular floor was usually fairly deserted at night, and Wilson was
confident that they would get to the nearest empty room without any
trouble; but just in case, he wanted to be certain that House's privacy
was preserved.

Wilson picked up House's cane and laid it on the tray beneath the
mattress, then wheeled the gurney into an empty room just barely out of
sight from the nurses' station, going immediately to the blinds and
closing them, before locking the door and then, finally, turning on the
light. He realized all at once that his heart was pounding and his palms
were cool and damp as he slowly made his way back to House's side.

He really, really did not want to do this.

He walked around the side of the bed to face his friend - and froze, when
he got a good look at House's face. Now, in the much brighter lighting of
this room, he could see dark bruises forming on his face, the evidence
that in addition to the other abuse he had taken, House had been dealt a
brutal beating. 

His expression was strangely blank, his mouth set in a thin, flat line,
his eyes wide and staring at the far wall, and he appeared to be almost in
shock. He was clutching the thin blanket in one hand, holding it up around
the level of his throat, and Wilson noticed with dismay that he was
visibly trembling. Perhaps the reality of what had happened to him was
just now sinking in for House.

Or perhaps, he was simply in dread of allowing his friend to see what had
been done to him.

Wilson crouched down in front of him, so that his eyes were level with
those of his friend. He held his gaze for a moment, waiting until he could
tell that House was finally focusing on him.

"You know," he pointed out softly, "I'm sensing a little bit of a problem
with this arrangement."

House swallowed hard, a trace of humor in his eyes despite the gravity of
the situation, as he replied in a self-deprecating tone, quietly mocking
his own fear, "That would be your challenge, Wilson. Figure out a way to
perform a physical without moving the blanket."

"I don't think that technology's been invented yet." Wilson's voice was
gentle, compassionate, as he gave his friend a reassuring, sympathetic
smile.

"Well, why don't you go invent it...and I'll just be waiting right here,"
House suggested, his eyes suddenly averted, a pitiful note of hope in his
voice, mingled with sorrowful resignation - because he knew that no matter
how badly he wanted to, this was not something that could be avoided
forever.

Wilson said nothing, just waited a long moment, until House let out a
shaky sigh of reluctant acceptance. Taking the quiet sound as permission,
the younger doctor reached cautiously for the corner of the blanket House
clutched in his hand, gently prying it from his trembling grasp and
pulling it down to rest around his waist.

One step at a time, Wilson...just...take it slow...

"Okay...I need to take your shirt off, all right? I need to get to that
stab wound, get it cleaned up and bandaged so you don't lose any more
blood. All right?"

"You don't have to explain to me why you need my shirt off, Wilson," House
snapped, then added in a mockingly suggestive tone of voice, "Unless it's
a case of you protesting just a little too much."

Wilson shot him a dubious look that told him how very not amusing he
thought his comment was.

House scoffed quietly. "Please. Like I haven't caught you looking in the
shower room. Must be the six minute abs." He paused a moment, before
adding in a more serious tone of voice, "I'm still a doctor, Wilson. I
know why you have to have my shirt off. Explaining the obvious to me does
nothing to make me feel any better about the situation."

Still, in all of that - he made no move to actually help to take the shirt
off. Feeling awkward and uncomfortable, uncertain what was the best way to
handle this situation, Wilson cleared his throat.

"Um...do you want to...or...should I just...?"

The irritation in House's sigh could not mask its slight tremor as he
raised his hand and began unfastening the buttons of his shirt. "I accept
$20's only as tips," he informed his friend. "And look all you want, but
keep your hands off the merchandise."

Wilson winced inwardly at House's choice of joke, wondering what it said
about his state of mind at the moment, following...what had happened.

You still don't really know what happened, Wilson reasoned with himself,
though the greater part of him knew it was only wishful thinking. You
could be reading this all wrong. Maybe he really did just get his bike
stolen. Maybe you've just seen too many movies of the week lately.

But as House finished the buttons and held his arm out for Wilson to help
him pull it out of its sleeve - since he was unable to sit up, and
therefore unable to gain any leverage to get it off himself - the trace of
panic Wilson saw in his eyes told him that his fears were grounded in
nothing less than brutal fact. 

Gently, he pulled the sleeve off House's arm, then cautiously pulled the
material under him and out on the other side, freeing his other arm as
well. Immediately, Wilson's eyes went wide with horror as he took in the
dark purple bruises that covered his friend's chest and back - most of
them in perfectly straight lines, about an inch thick...

My God...the bastard beat him with his own cane!

Aware that there was little he could do for the bruising except to allow
it to heal, Wilson swallowed back his shock, knowing that his reaction
would do nothing to help House, and focused his attention instead on the
ugly stab wound in his upper abdomen. 

It was almost a relief to redirect his efforts toward a simple injury that
was relatively easy to mend, rather than thinking about the other horrors,
both physical and psychological, that his friend had endured. Perhaps that
was why, as he neared the end of the task at hand, Wilson began to feel
that sense of dread rising up in him again.

Once the wound was bandaged, Wilson stood up straight with a heavy, shaky
sigh. "Okay. That's...that part down. Now...House...I really need to check
out the...the other source of the bleeding. Okay?"

House said nothing, did not move at all, simply lay very still, staring at
the wall in front of him - and his hand once more clutched at the blanket
at his waist, holding it up in place. Wilson swallowed back a hard lump in
the back of his throat, blinking back tears that sprang to his eyes
unbidden, as he instinctively reached out a gentle hand to rest over
House's clenched fist on the blanket.

"House." He hesitated a moment, before amending in a softer, more intimate
tone, "Greg."

House looked up at him then, his eyes wide and visibly frightened, shaking
his head slightly. His whispered words held a despairing tone as he
replied, "I...I can't, Wilson. I...I just...can't..."

Wilson could feel his trembling, shaking the entire gurney beneath him, as
he gently stroked his thumb over the back of his friend's hand, doing his
best to comfort him. He had some experience with soothing panicked,
traumatized individuals - even if usually they were only panicked and
traumatized due to the news he had given them himself - and he employed
every bit of experience he had now, in his attempt to calm his shaken
friend.

"Greg," Wilson repeated his first name softly, crouching down in front of
him again and holding his gaze. "It's all right. It's just me, okay? I
know what happened to you...well, sort of...and I know it's impossible for
you to feel safe right now...but...but nobody's here to hurt you. Okay?"

House hesitated, and Wilson could see the struggle in his eyes, as if that
part of him that insisted on constantly keeping his mask in place was
still fighting against the idea of admitting what had happened. But Wilson
already knew; there was no hiding it, not from this man who was closer and
knew him better than any other living person.

Finally, House closed his eyes, lowering his head in shame, as he nodded
his acceptance of Wilson's words. "Wilson...please," he begged in a quiet
broken voice that sounded infinitely wrong coming from House. "No one...no
one else can know about this. Please."

Relieved, though his heart was breaking for his clearly devastated friend,
Wilson assured him gently, "I promise you, House, nobody else is gonna
see...gonna know. It's just me...and I just wanna help. All right? Will
you let me help you? I've gotta be sure you're not..." He hesitated, a
grimace twisting his features as he tried again, "Gotta be sure...he
didn't..." His voice trailed off, and he gave the other doctor an
apologetic look as he asked in a hushed, confidential tone, "House...did
he...did he wear a condom?"

"They."

The whispered word was so soft that Wilson almost didn't catch it - and
when it registered with him, his heart did a horrified flip in his chest.
Suddenly, he was breathless, unable to find words. He squeezed House's
hand in a wordless show of support, struggling to regain his composure.

"And...no," House answered, his voice shaking dangerously, his eyes
focused downward in humiliation. "I...I don't think they did. Not...not
all of them, anyway..."

Finally, he replied, his own voice barely over a carefully restrained
whisper. "They? There was...more than one...attacker?"

House nodded, unwilling to raise his eyes to meet the concerned gaze of
his friend. Wilson sounded utterly aghast at what he was revealing...and
yet somehow, now, he could not help but reveal it.

"House...how...how many were there?" Wilson held his breath, hoping for
the least horrible possible answer...but not receiving it.

"Four," House whispered, his voice aching with devastated shame. "There
were...there were four men...who...who raped me."  
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the
ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House
(and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property
of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I
am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive
no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement
nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the
show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.