Note: Sorry for the long delay. I swear, I'm not trying to torture you guys, but I'm having technical difficulties. My computer went totally haywire, and attacked me. Literally. As in I have second-degree burns on my wrist. Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter, let me know if you do (or even if you don't!) and cross your fingers my friends at the station will continue to share their computers so I can update!
Once the bone was set, casted, and in a sling, Alex was starting to come out from the vicodin haze. She was laying on the couch in House's office, and House was sitting a few feet away playing his PSP. Shaking her head to clear the last of the fuzziness from her eyes and sat up straight. "House?"
He looked up at his injured duckling, and glanced at his watch. "About time!" he said. "If I had any idea you were such a lightweight, I'd have held back on the good stuff!"
She shifted a little, and a bolt of pain shot through her arm. "I'd say you weren't liberal enough," she complained. "How long have I been out?"
"About two hours. Have a nice nap?" She nodded, embarrassed.
"Look, about what happened…"
House shook his head. "You don't have to tell me now. I'll just eavesdrop when you tell the police. No use in having to go through it twice."
Her eyes widened. "Police?! No, I just-"
He stood up sharply. "Don't you dare say anything to the effect of 'I just made him mad', or I'll break your other arm myself!" She looked startled, and he realized that may not have been the right thing to say. "Ok, sorry, shouldn't have put it like that. But you have to talk to the police. This bastard beat the shit out of you, and from your reaction, I take it this isn't the first time." She looked down, ashamed, her face turning red and tears fighting to break free.
House closed his eyes. Shit. He wasn't the one who should be doing this, where was Chase?! He should be the one dealing with this! Chase was good at the whole being a person thing. He would know just what to do. Before he could continue, Alex finally reacted. She looked back up and was ready to meet his eyes when he opened them. They burned into his with anger he had only seen from her once, the day she reminded Wilson even boy-wonder oncologists have to watch what they say. Only now it was directed at him. He expected her to shout, but when she spoke her voice was calm and steady. "You think this is the worst it's ever been? There's been some nights that I didn't know if I would survive! A broken arm is NOTHING!"
He stared at her; this was totally unexpected. He had expected fear, or maybe even relief that she wasn't alone in this anymore. Anger, however…that came out of left field. She continued. "You look at me now and see a poor little abused kid, someone too weak to protect herself! That's not me, not who I am! I don't need your pity!"
He recoiled a little at her words. How many times had he said that last sentence? "I don't pity you," he said softly. "I want to help you." The words even surprised him. Wasn't he supposed to be a heartless bastard? Oh well. The kid wasn't going to tell on him.
"When you trip over your own feet and Chase offers you a hand up, what do you do?"
"I ignore it," he said.
"And I should do any different?"
"It's different!" he exclaimed. She cocked her head, and motioned for him to explain. He sighed. "Okay. Tripping over my own feet is the equivalent of that black eye you had a few weeks ago. This…this is more like when I slipped down the steps outside my apartment in the ice storm and couldn't get up. The ice made my leg hurt worse than ever, and I was stuck." He added the last word purposely for effect. "Helpless."
She looked at him warily. "What did you do?"
He looked away. "I called Wilson. He came and helped me up."
Alex contemplated that for a moment, then changed the subject. "Where is Wilson, anyway?"
House shrugged. "Haven't seen him."
"What about Chase? If he was here, you'd be somewhere else, letting him deal with the emotional stuff."
House jerked his head up, remembering. Chase had gone looking for Alex. Hours ago. And if Alex was here, relatively safe… "Alex, what's your address?"
She hadn't expected that, but was wary all the same. "Why? I said I didn't want to talk to the police!"
"Kid, Chase went looking for you. Chances are, he tried your apartment. Want to tell me what happened from there?"
Alex stood up way too fast and the room spun. She fought against it and held her ground. When she was steady, she looked at House. "I changed my mind. Call the police. Tell them to meet us at 125 Manchester road, apartment 14."
"Us?"
"Either come on, or give me the keys to your motorcycle."
House thought it over. "Ok, let's go!"
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Wilson came to in the pitch black, and struggled to piece together where he was and why. His head was busting, and the only break he got from the darkness was the swirling colors in his vision. 'Okay,' he thought to himself, 'positive on the concussion'. Then it all hit him. Alex. The rescue attempt. Chase. Oh, God, Chase! He called out to his friend, quietly, and felt around the cramped space, his claustrophobia returning full-force. He was nauseated, either from the head injury or fear. He wished the sadistic asshole holding them had at least left Chase's penlight!
He froze, and all rational thought left his mind as he heard a bone-chilling scream. He knew deep down that it was Chase, and his heart sped up to double-time. What was he doing to Chase? There was nothing to be gained by simply sitting there worrying. All that would do was sent him back into a claustrophobic panic again, although the trauma of that seemed to be receding. Gave a little credence to the barbaric psychology practice of "flooding", in which you completely immersed a phobic patient in whatever they were afraid of. Still barbaric, cruel even, but as he was breathing almost normally, he had to admit it was effective.
Pushing himself to his feet, Wilson felt his way to the door and started pounding on the door. "Hey!" he shouted as loud as he could, wincing at the bolt of pain the noise sent through his head. "Hey! Leave him alone! Let us go! We don't know anything!" It seemed too much to hope for that his yelling actually made a difference, but Chase did stop screaming.
He found out why a moment later when the closet door burst open and John reached in and grabbed Wilson by his shirt. His eyes were wild and the doctor hiding under the terrified captive mentality noticed that his pupils were pinpoint. He was higher than a kite on something…crank, maybe. If things were bad before, they had moved on to 'lost in the woods, no food, and only Cameron for company' levels. "'Bout time you woke up!" he growled. "I got someone else to work on now. Don't think your friend could take much more!" Wilson let his imagination work on those words as the psychopath drug him down the hallway.
Chase was duct taped to a kitchen chair, looking like he had gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. His nose was bleeding, swelling and bruises mottled his face. Blood streaked through his blond hair, and his shirt had been ripped open. Various cuts, bruises, and what looked suspiciously like burns marred the pale skin of his chest. Mercifully, he was unconscious. "What did you do to him?!" Wilson demanded.
"He was being an ass!" He shoved Wilson down into the chair, and went about securing him in the same manner in which he had Chase. "All I wanted was to know where my little girl is, and he got smart with me. Called me a 'unbalanced sociopath'. I don't even know what that means!" Wilson shook his head. Chase was getting more and more like House every day! "So, are you going to tell me, or do I have to hurt you too?" Wilson was silent, dreading what was to come. He would never send Alex back to this man, even if he did know where she was.
His captor reached over to the table and picked up a hammer. "Come on, bub. Don't make me do this. How is little Alex going to feel, knowing I had to hurt her friends to keep her in line?"
A cold rage filled Wilson at that, a rage he didn't think he was capable of, and he actually managed to pull his right leg loose from six layer of duct tape to kick at the man. "You're never touching her again! I'll kill you first!"
John snarled, and swung the hammer at Wilson's leg. It connected solidly with his shin and Wilson howled as the bone splintered. He drew back to swing again, and Wilson threw himself backwards, tipping the chair over and leaving him helpless on the floor. John mover behind him, and held the hammer over his face, ready to drive the claw end into Wilson's brain. He raised the hammer, ready for a home run swing, when the door cashed in. "New Jersey state police!" a voice called. "Everybody FREEZE!"