There were so many ways of making people do what you wanted other than killing them.
He's been volunteering at the Salvation Army shelter for three years now. Experience gained from working in the local hospital emergency room is useful here; he can help the people that don't make it that far, the ones who think they won't be welcome.
The temperature outside has slipped below freezing so business is brisk tonight. A quick glance around reveals a few of his regular customers and he heads for one of them first.
"David!"
"Marco." The man welcomes him with a weak handclasp, before sinking back down in his chair.
Going into medical-mode he begins checking David over. Funds are tight and he's only supposed to treat minor injuries. Anything else is referred to the local hospital - assuming the patient will go.
David's always covered in bruises but that's not unusual here. There's a hierarchy on the street and it's enforced with fists and boots. Tonight his injuries are particularly bad though and he can see blood underneath the dirt and whiskers.
Frowning, he checks for other injuries. "I think maybe you should…" he starts but is stopped with a vehement 'No!"
"I'm fine, Doc. I cleaned it all up," David says, pointing at his chest. "Just give me something for the pain."
Further investigation reveals that underneath his shirt and jacket, David's chest is bound neatly with old rags. Buttoning everything up, trying not to notice the thinness of the body beneath, he raises his eyebrows in question.
Struggling to sit up straight, David answers with a groan. "My brother was training to be a doctor. Is a doctor," he corrects after a pause. "Used to practice on me during vacation time."
People here don't have histories, he reminds himself. But this time it's a rule he's tempted to break. "A doctor, huh?" Maybe I know him?"
David scowls at him, pulling away. Two steps later he hisses with pain, one hand protectively covering his ribs as he doubles over. "Jesus…"
He grabs out to support him. "It's okay, I've got you," he murmurs, lowering him to the floor.
"His name is Wilson. James Wilson," David whispers as he closes his eyes.
This was the house that had been Nicholas's first home.
"Wilson! Beer!"
Pretending to glower he levers himself out of the couch and heads for the kitchen. House is in good spirits tonight and his mood is infectious. They've been winding up each other up all evening, both of them delivering their barbs with accuracy and ease.
Safe in the kitchen, away from the perceptive gaze, he allows himself a small smile. House is playing a waltz on the piano, an unusually up-tempo piece for him. Tapping his fingers on the worktop in time to the melody, in breathes a sigh of relief. It's been another very long week but at last it's Friday evening.
Returning with the beers he claims his place on the couch. Legs stretched out, absently picking at the label on the beer bottle, he feels the tension oozing out of his body. The promise of Friday night with House is what gets him out of bed on a Monday morning. It's like the light at the end of a long dark tunnel.
He doesn't know how he'd survive without Friday nights.
The sound of the phone ringing breaks into his thoughts. He doesn't move, even though he can feel the scowl that's being directed at him.
"Phone," House barks, not missing a beat.
"Your phone," he throws back, taking a gulp of beer.
"It's my couch too but it hasn't stopped you sitting on it all evening."
Conceding with a grin, he heads for the phone. Grabbing the handset he adopts his best English butler voice. "The House residence."
There's a pause at the other end before a voice asks hesitantly, "Is Doctor Wilson there?"
Several replies rush through his head, none of them polite. Friday nights are sacred; his staff knows that. Which is why the call must be important, he logically points out to himself.
Sighing, he confirms who he is. Abruptly the music stops, just in time for him to hear the caller introduce himself.
"My name is Marco De Silva, Dr Wilson. You don't know me but Dr Cuddy thought it would be okay for me to call…"
The remains of stone stalls under the promenades revealed there had once been a great market here, but the area had long since given way to coffee houses, mazes of small alleys and decaying buildings.
"There's no point in running, David. You know that, right?"
The three men are looming over him. It's an illusion, their height, but he knows better than to makes jokes about their size. Instead he lets them deliver a few more well-placed kicks and then lies still. Laughing, they walk off.
Cold seeps through his clothes from the concrete floor. Shivering he rolls over on his side, coughing as he catches his ribs. They'd strapped them up at the hospital but bandages are no protection against boots.
Squeezing his eyes shut against the pain he staggers to the feet. A few shallow breaths do nothing to slow his pounding heart but he forces one foot in front of the other. It's another freezing cold night and standing still will be the death of him, although he's not sure if that's a bad thing or not.
He's not the only vagrant hiding in this warehouse and there's several small fires pitched around the edge. He staggers towards one then lowers himself to the floor, careful not to get too close. His disagreement with his 'friends' won't have gone un-noticed and his friends aren't the type of people that anyone here wants to mess around with.
He's still got some painkillers in his pocket but he dare not take them out. Pills are currency and he's in enough trouble as it is. Instead he curls up on the pile of boxes he calls home and tries to get some sleep.
Not that he sleeps much, hasn't done for years. Apart from yesterday, he thinks, remembering the hospital emergency room with its blankets and warmth. Too far-gone to care he'd let Marco take him to the hospital. Frightened that he was dying he'd told Marco things he'd promised he'd never say aloud again.
Big mistake, he reminds himself, shifting painfully against the hard floor. Seeing him like this would kill his mother. And the hospital had only been a temporary escape; they'd been waiting for him at the exit.
Not that it matters. For all he knows James could still be in New Jersey but that might as well be the other side of the universe.
The dingy corridors on the ground floor were far more crowded and it was almost impassable near the public area.
"Have you seen the weather out there? We're taking the Volvo, not the Vette."
He waits for Wilson to finish his tirade then limps to the closet to retrieve their coats. Behind him he can hear the other man breathing hard. The phone call has left him shaken.
He drives. Wilson isn't really functioning and he's silent during the journey to the shelter. There're no complaints about his rusty gear changes or his yelling when the lights turn red at every junction. A quick glance to his right and Wilson is staring fixedly through the windscreen, the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of his fists the only sign of movement.
By the time they get to the shelter the tension in the car is palpable. The cynic inside him thinks maybe this is someone's idea of a sick joke and as he follows Wilson into the reception area, he's already thinking of ways of making the bastards pay if that's the case.
For a second he considers telling Wilson about his theory but the look of hope in his friend's brown eyes makes him swallow his words. There's not going to be any soft landings on this one. He tightens his grip on his cane and keeps walking.
The reception area is dingy with a few plastic chairs and badly stained tables. Raised voices can be heard in the building but the reception is eerily quiet. Lowering himself down gently into a chair, cursing the cold weather outside, he mulls over the telephone call Wilson received, analyzing it from every angle.
"How many people have you told about David," he asks eventually, unable to sit silent any longer.
Wilson shrugs, his attention fixed firmly on the floor. "You. Cuddy."
"Really?" He can't hide his surprise.
Wilson sighs and looks over his shoulder at him. "What? You don't believe me?"
His tongue goes into overdrive even as his brain is telling him to stop. "Don't tell me you haven't tried it out on one of the nurses. Long lost brother. Broken heart…" He trails off as Wilson glares at him. The easy banter they'd shared earlier in the evening is a distant memory. Silence is probably the way to go.
Eventually a young man appears and heads towards them. He watches Wilson automatically slip into caring mode, a smile on his face, his hand outstretched in welcome. Hanging back he takes the opportunity to study the new arrival.
His name badge says 'Dr Marco'. A doctor of what he's not sure but he's got his bedside manner down to perfection. Wilson is lapping it up. He scowls, not falling for the act for a second. There's a catch, he's sure of it.
"He's gone?"
He steps up beside Wilson, the note of disbelief in his friend's voice jerking him into action. "That's assuming he was ever here of course."
Marco blinks in surprise. "Of course…" he stutters, looking at each of them in turn. "You think I'm lying?"
"No, he doesn't."
The glare Wilson's giving him could burn through flesh but his tongue is fueled by anger and he pushes on. "Do you get off on this, screwing with family members?" He gestures towards Wilson who's shaking his head and pacing in circles. "He's been looking for his brother for years. I bet he's been in here lots of times-"
"I've never seen him before!" Agitated, Marco throws his arms in the air then takes a deep breath and starts again. "David had bandaged up his chest, said his brother used to practice on him during vacation time."
Wilson stops pacing. Slowly he sinks down into a chair and rests his head in his hands. Okay then. Maybe David has been here.
Sinking down in the chair beside him he asks the questions that he knows his friend is incapable of voicing right now. "Why did he need the bandages?"
Marco shakes his head, waving him to silence as he opens his mouth to protest. "It's confidential."
"But-"
"House."
Wilson's reprimand is barely more than a whisper but he takes the hint. "When did you see him last?"
Marco hesitates for a heartbeat. "At the hospital."
Beside him he feels Wilson tense. If he was the touching type he'd put a hand out to reassure him but he's not so he fixes his attention on Marco instead, looking for answers. Marco, he discovers, is a quick learner. Not waiting for the obvious next question the younger man is already holding up his hands defensively.
"I'm sorry. I wish I could but I can't."
"That's okay. I think we can fill in the gaps."
It's not okay he thinks, his grip on the cane tightening in reaction to Wilson's voice. He wants details, he wants a solution. But Wilson is getting up from his chair and thanking Marco, apparently ready to leave.
Reluctantly he follows. The path outside is icy and they walk silently side by side as he navigates it. It's not until they're back in the car and heading for his apartment that Wilson speaks again.
"At least I know he's alive. And he's here somewhere in Princeton."
Finally he had searched as much of the place as he was able to without a ladder and he went to sit in the concealing shadow of an oversized urn.
The nails securing the shutters are shiny and fixed firmly in the wood. That's good because it probably means he's the first one here. It's bad because it takes all his energy to lever the shutter open and he doesn't have any energy to spare.
There's a crack as the shutter comes away and he freezes. This is a nice neighborhood. Any second now he expects shouting voices and threats about the cops. A night inside a cell might not be a bad thing but he knows his three friends won't agree.
Panic fuels his movements, enabling him to open the window and drag his body through in quick succession. Pulling the shutter closed he listens, waiting for the thud of boots and their familiar voices.
There's nothing except the cold, dark enveloping silence punctuated by his wheezing breaths. Rolling over he crawls onto his knees. As abandoned houses go, this one is quite luxurious. There's carpet on the floor, warm after the warehouse's concrete floor. But he doesn't have time to admire it.
Staggering to his feet he checks out the ground floor. It's pitch black and he keeps tripping, each time jarring his ribs. The staircase to the next floor looms like Mount Everest so he ignores it, deciding to take his chances.
He couldn't escape even if someone was already in here. Breathing in is painful and running a thing of the past. Pneumonia had been mentioned at the hospital but he ignored their offers of help. Getting away had been so much more important.
There's a broken packing case in one corner and he slumps down next to it. Sitting upright usually eases his breathing but tonight he's too tired. Gradually he gives up the fight and his body slides towards to the floor.
The man was young, dressed in a naval officer's uniform.
"His name is David. This picture was taken a while ago -"
The man he's talking to shakes his head and shuffles away. With a sigh he mutters his thanks, rubbing his hands together vigorously against the bitter cold. They've been searching for hours and he's beginning to remember why he'd stopped doing this. Usually the loss of his brother feels like a dull ache. Tonight the loss is raw, like a recent bereavement, as he sees his brother in every one of these scruffy faces.
David could be here though, he reminds himself. And it's enough to keep him going.
Doggedly he carries on showing the picture around, walking from fire to fire and maintaining a smile. Occasionally the picture results in laughter - it's a college graduation portrait, complete with mortarboard, acne and a cheeky grin – but mostly the reaction is hostility or fear. He's made photocopies and left some behind but already he's seen several trampled underfoot.
The picture probably isn't helping; he knows that. The young man smiling up at him looks nothing like the brother he lost. Calling his mother for another picture isn't an option though. And he's not even sure she kept some of the later shots.
Hitching his coat collar up against the cold he heads back to the car. It's parked underneath a streetlight and he can see House in the driver's seat. He'd insisted on coming – 'Someone has to keep an eye on your wheels' – but he'd stayed in the car, with the heater turned on full.
They're both working tomorrow and he knows he should call it a night. Marco's supplied him with a list of places where David might be but there're more than a dozen addresses on it, places he's never heard of before. Three is all they've managed tonight. This search could take days.
House lowers the window as he approaches. He leans in to talk to him, tiredness threading through his voice. "Let's go home." He's forced to step backwards as House swings the door open, unfolding himself from the car.
"Give."
What?" It takes him a second to realize his friend is gesturing at the photocopies, now crumpled in his hand. "What are you…" he stutters but he's talking to House's back. Limping heavily, House is heading back the way he's just come, brandishing the sheaf of paper like a lethal weapon. "House. I don't think this is a good idea."
House keeps going, throwing him an evil look over his shoulder. "Don't worry, Mom. I promise to play nice with the other kids."
Groaning, he shakes his head and then heads back too. Two pairs of legs are better than one but he can't help feeling uneasy and as he starts talking to people again, he keeps a wary eye on his friend.
He's soon absorbed back into the routine again – until he catches a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye. The men around House are slowing standing. Voices are being raised. Issuing a rapid 'thank you' he hurries towards the crowd and then stops, his jaw dropping in surprise.
House has casually reached inside his coat pocket and, like a magician with a rabbit in a hat, has produced a packet of cigarettes. There are murmurs of surprise then laughter as he dips in again for a lighter, flicking it on and offering it around. Lighting one for himself he leans on his cane and laughs. With his dark hat and whiskers House blends into the shadows along with the other men standing around the fire.
Breathing a sigh of relief he wavers between running to the rescue and carrying on his own search. Instead he heads back to the car, leaning on the hood. Eventually House comes back towards him, his limp more pronounced.
"We're going." House pushes him towards the passenger side and opens the driver's door.
There's a note of urgency that's impossible to ignore. Questions are rushing through his mind but he holds them until they're driving down the road. "What's happened?" Beside him his friend is concentrating on driving but there's a muscle twitching in his jaw. "House?"
"David was there."
He swings from fear to elation in a second. "That's gre-"
"No it's not. Someone else has been looking for him. Three men. And we're not talking about his poker buddies."
His brain takes a second a catch on. "Shit. That's how he injured his ribs?" Ugly images flash across his mind and he closes his eyes. Not knowing had been a lot easier.
The sound of House calling his name jerks him from his personal nightmare. Looking around he realizes they've stopped outside a 24-7 store. "What..?"
Tapping impatiently on the steering wheel, House is watching him intently, a frown on his face. "Give me Marco's list. I'm going to need something to read while you're in there getting cigarettes and coffee."
The windows on the upper floors were apparently lightless behind their heavy shutters and the house had a deserted look.
"Have I told you what a dumb idea this is, Marco?"
"Several times," he replies, his breath misting in the crisp air. "Loudly."
For a moment he regrets telling Richard about his plans this evening. Searching alone might be easier; his face is familiar amongst Princeton's homeless community. But as he points his torch in Richard's direction, picking out his friend's bulky silhouette, he's also reminded that his fellow doctor practices karate in his spare time. Tonight he might be a good person to know.
"You let them get under your skin."
"I know."
"This is probably just a wild goose chase."
He nods his head and keeps on going. The shape of a house looms out of the darkness in front of them, the half-moon throwing thin shadows across the path. It's not one of the normal hangouts he checks during situations like these but he's got a tip-off and he's desperate enough to check anywhere.
"I could be sitting at home watching American Chopper," Richard reminds him as they spread out, checking the ground in front of them for recent footprints.
"You'll catch the re-runs," he throws back. Coming to a halt, he scans the front of the house with his torch.
"Looks pretty secure to me." Richard is echoing his thoughts.
"Damn."
His sigh is echoed to his left. "Maybe he doesn't want to be found. Maybe that's why he ran."
He shakes his head. "I don't think so. I have a feeling about this." Waving with his torch he carries on walking. "Let's check round the back."
Fighting their way through the overgrown garden they split up, taking one side of the house each. His heart sinks as the torchlight reveals more intact shutters. Suddenly a high-pitched whistle pierces the silence.
Following the light from his friend's torch he finds Richard closely examining one of the shutters. It's obviously been forced from the outside.
"Bingo."
They found Cusard waiting up the street and climbed aboard the wagon.
He's suffering from a feeling of deja vu.
Last time Wilson received a call from Marco he'd ended up driving. Again, he only knows the barest details of the conversation but the tension in Wilson's pose is telling him the rest.
The address that Marco's directed them to isn't one of the addresses on his list. Homeless people aren't welcome in this area and it only adds to the questions he has. Asking Wilson would be a waste of time though so he concentrates on driving instead.
Through the gloom he sees a figure on the sidewalk, waving. As it materializes into Marco he pulls up, leaving the engine running as the younger man climbs in. Beside him Wilson stirs, looking back over his shoulder. In the rear-view mirror he sees Marco wave his friend to silence and they exchange worried looks.
His sense of foreboding grows as they pull up outside the house that Marco has directed them to. Wilson is out of the car first, shifting restlessly, desperate to be gone. Marco throws him a torch then raps out a precise set of instructions. By the time he's levered himself out of the car Wilson's gone, the light from his torch fading into the distance.
"Tell me," he commands as Marco drops into step beside him.
"Pneumonia," Marco tells him with a regretful shrug. "Possibly hypothermia. Difficult to tell in there. We've got an ambulance on the way."
He nods, saving his energy for walking. No amount of Vicodin can stave off the cold and his muscles are protesting. Biting his lip he walks faster. Wilson will be in there by now and he needs to know what's happening.
Discovering there's a window to negotiate he feels like yelling with frustration. Help from strangers isn't usually something he accepts gracefully but Marco is silent as he offers his arm, giving him the extra leverage he needs. Hitting the floor on the other side of the window doesn't agree with his leg but he sucks in a sharp breath and keeps on going.
Torchlight suddenly blinds him and he blinks, letting his eyes grow accustomed. Gradually he can pick things out around him. There's a man kneeling beside a pile of blankets and coats, his name badge pronouncing that he works in the Princeton General Emergency Room. Beside him stands Wilson, rooted to the spot.
Tentatively testing his leg he takes a step forward. Beside him he can feel Wilson shivering and he doubts it's from the cold. Leaning on his good leg he gives his friend a nudge with his cane. Like a man in a trance Wilson kneels down and reaches out, curling his fingers around the edge of the blankets and carefully pulling them back.
"David?"
It also wasn't true, or perhaps Arsilde was being polite.
"David?"
The last thing he can clearly remember is the derelict house and the roughness of the packing case, digging in his back. The carpet was soft but not this soft. But he can remember that voice.
Opening his eyes is an effort but he manages it with a groan. Bright light brings pain and he closes them again. Taking a deep breath, he makes another effort.
Deep brown eyes swim into his vision. Women had always fallen for those eyes, even when his brother was just a kid. He'd been jealous back then; he still feels jealous now. The last ten years have been good to his brother; he's filled out, looks more comfortable in his skin.
Unlike him.
"You're awake."
Swallowing hard, he tests moving his head and regrets it. There's an oxygen mask over his face so talking is going to be difficult. Luckily Jimmy seems happy to fill in the gaps.
"You're in the hospital. We'll talk later. You're safe. Everything's going to be fine."
No they're not, he feels like saying but closes his eyes instead. Jimmy's always been an optimist. It's one of his brother's less attractive traits.
The tunnel widened and opened into a ledge, a few feet above a stream of putrid water flowing through a round, brick lined sewer.
"Go to bed, Wilson."
With a jerk he comes awake. Blinking sleep from his eyes, it takes him a second for him to register his surroundings; House's apartment and he's sleeping in his friend's recliner chair. Automatically he looks over at the couch, checking David's still sleeping there, hidden under a pile of blankets. Letting out a breath he allows himself to relax.
House is standing next to the recliner, watching him closely. A quick glance at his watch tells him it's 3am and he groans, stretching the kinks out of his muscles. Sleep in a bed is tempting but tonight, as he has every other night, he declines the offer with a shake of his head. House shrugs then seats himself at the piano, gently running his fingers across the keys. He watches him for a moment then slides back down into the recliner, letting the music wash over him.
He and David have been staying at House's apartment since his brother was discharged from the hospital. That morning House had cruised up to the entrance in his Volvo and insisted on taking them home – to his home as it had turned out. Apparently, according to House, his own apartment is less welcoming than David's usual derelict hangouts. 'Contemporary' had been the description on the letting agent's details but he can see why there might be some confusion.
On the couch David shifts, a low moan escaping his lips. His brother never sleeps easily although that's gradually beginning to change. The nights when he wakes up screaming are becoming rarer occurrences but he always wakes up with a haunted look in his eyes.
The brother in the graduation picture, with the cheeky grin and acne, is a distant memory. This brother is wary, suspicious of all offers of help. He hates being worried over and it's the one thing they keeping falling out about. House has supplied the balance, using his caustic humor to stop petty arguments turning into explosive rows. Occasionally when he's woken up in the early hours of the morning he's found House and his brother having quiet conversations, stopping when they realize he's awake. Part of him feels jealous that House seems to have made a connection with his brother when he feels like he's flailing about in the dark. A larger part is grateful for the return of life in David's eyes.
His only regret is that they've haven't told their parents yet. David was adamant and House had agreed. He'd sulked about it for days, guilt making it impossible for him to see their side of their argument. Gradually, with House's insistent prodding, he began to comprehend; David's struggling to understand his new life, an audience is the last thing he needs. Their mother would suffocate him; it's from her he inherited his caring gene.
The music stops and he realizes House is watching him again. Shaking his head he forces a smile on his lips. Reaching out, he rests his hand on top of David's blankets. There is light at the end of the tunnel he reminds himself, as the music starts again. He's just got to be patient and learn to sit back and wait. Eventually his brother will come home again.