As he watched House staring down with stricken eyes at the belt in his trembling hands, Wilson had never felt such overwhelming, consuming rage. It boiled up within him, shaking him to his core, as he thought of the agony of memories that had to be flooding House's mind in that moment. He stared at what should have been nothing more than a simple clothing accessory – but would never be again.
So much had been stolen, changed and turned on its head, without House's consent.
They've destroyed him…It would have been more merciful if they'd killed him than to…to do this to a man so powerful, so strong and full of life…
Without thought for his anger-fueled actions, Wilson swiftly closed the distance between himself and his friend. Ignoring the pang of guilt he felt when House flinched at his sudden advance, Wilson snatched the offending belt from his hands. Stalking across the room to the bathroom, he hurled it into the trash can.
If he could have burned the thing, he would have.
He turned toward House again, seething with helpless fury – and felt that fury melt into sympathetic tears at the pitiful sight his friend made. House was still facing the dresser, his head bowed, staring down at his trembling hands cupped in front of him, as if he could still see the belt there.
He probably does see it… Wilson struggled to rid his mind of the hideous images that filled it, against his will. …and what they used it to do to him…
"House," he whispered, his tone softening as he took a cautious step toward the other man. "Hey…look at me…"
He merely wanted to gain his friend's attention, to draw him out of the waking nightmare that was so obviously consuming his thoughts. House looked up at him, brilliant blue eyes wide and aching with loss and confusion – looking right at him, but not seeing him. Instead of leading House out of it, Wilson glimpsed the nightmare there – and it stole his breath away.
"Hey," Wilson repeated, raising his voice slightly as he moved to House's side, holding his gaze the entire time so as not to alarm him. "House…it's over. It's over, okay? You're safe now…"
But he choked over the words, unable to believe them himself, and certainly unable to make them sound convincing to House. Gently, he reached out to touch House's arms, seeking to ground him, to remind him of where he was, and with whom. He knew it shouldn't, but it still stung when House jerked away from him with a sharp intake of breath, shaking his head, unable to meet his gaze as he backed up against the dresser.
"Don't," House whispered, the word almost a sob. "Don't touch me…just…just, please, don't…" His hands were out in front of him now in a pleading gesture that broke Wilson's heart.
"Okay," he whispered, mirroring the gesture, trying to be as nonthreatening as possible. "Okay…I won't…I'm sorry…I'm just trying to help, and I know I'm screwing it all up, but I don't know what to do, House. I want to help you, but I don't have the first clue what I should do…"
"Can…can you…?" House's voice was hesitant, and he stopped without finishing the question, shaking his head in defeat.
"What? Anything, House. What do you need me to do?" Wilson's tone was almost eager, seizing on the possibility that there might be something he could do after all.
House looked up at him, his eyes apologetic for what he was about to say, his voice barely a whisper. "Can you get out? For a little while?"
Wilson blinked, startled – and unreasonably hurt – by the request.
"It's just…I haven't been…alone…since…since before, and…and it's just too much," House explained, looking away. He was obviously uncomfortable with the hurt in Wilson's eyes, but needed to make him understand. "I know you wanna help. I know you're trying, but…but I need some space. I…don't want you to see me…right now."
Wilson was quiet for a moment, before nodding slowly. "I get that," he replied quietly. "I just…just thought you didn't want to be alone…"
House met his eyes for an instant in a brief, rueful grin as he shrugged, "I don't. But…" His voice trailed off again, and he shook his head, giving up on making his feelings any clearer.
But Wilson did get it.
"Okay," he repeated, heading toward the door without hesitation. He paused, glancing at the metal box on the table uncertainly before picking it up and putting it under his arm. Just as he opened the door, House's anxious voice, tinged with a note of panic, stopped him.
"Wilson?"
He turned to face his friend, and read the question in his eyes. He flashed House a reassuring smile, hoping the older man couldn't tell that he had to force it.
"I'm just gonna be right outside," he told him. "I won't be far. No one will get close to our door without my seeing them first."
The tension in House's expression eased somewhat, and he nodded, clearly relieved. Wilson nodded too, satisfied, before stepping out into the hallway and closing the door behind him.
Intense relief and blind terror mingled in House's mind as Wilson disappeared out the door. He watched the empty spot where he had been for a few moments, trying to steady his breathing, to calm the rising fears that were swelling up in his mind, forming an enormous wave that threatened to overwhelm him completely.
Shakily, he sat down on the foot of the bed, leaning forward with his head in his hands, his eyes tightly closed in a vain attempt to shut out the tormenting memories that had been triggered by the sight of the belt – but the images only grew clearer when he closed his eyes.
As the handcuffs fell away again, House's battered, naked body collapsed to the floor in a pitiful heap, trembling with pain and exhaustion. For the first time in nearly an hour, his hands were free; theoretically, he could have fought back – but his body felt heavy, paralyzed with shock and pain.
A menacing whisper in his ear sent a shudder down his spine. "Time to get this show on the road, Dr. House…"
Tritter's hand, sliding with obscene intimacy along the side of his hip, edging inward, drew House out of shock and into panic. He tried to knock the invasive touch away with his own weak, trembling hand, but found himself immediately and easily restrained, his wrists crossed in front of him and held firmly in one of Tritter's large, meaty hands.
"Don't fight me, House," Tritter warned him, his voice chillingly soft, utterly in control, as he picked up the discarded handcuffs and locked House's hands together, in front of him this time. A cruel smile on his lips, he jerked House's head back by the hair, forcing him to meet his cold gaze. "This is gonna be bad enough for you as it is. Don't give me an excuse to make it worse."
House saw the reason in Tritter's words – he really did – but when Tritter's hand touched him again, reason ceased to matter to him. He struggled instinctively, though he knew there was no way he could escape.
"No!" he protested, though the word came out as a moan of weary pain and fear. "Don't touch me…"
Tritter cursed under his breath in frustration, striking out at the helpless, terrified man with three brutal blows to his face in rapid succession, leaving House dazed, dizzy and on the verge of blacking out. The detective took the opportunity to drag the momentarily pliant doctor to his feet, holding him by one arm as he held out his other hand toward one of his men.
"Give me his belt," he ordered. When the man gave him a questioning look, he added with a grin, "I'm gonna show him who his daddy is."
The others seemed to find that comment hilarious, laughing uproariously as Tritter dragged House off toward another room of the house.
A bedroom.
House had expected another beating when Tritter had asked for his belt – and considering the worse fate he knew the cop had planned for him, he didn't know whether to view the prospect of another beating to his already bruised and torn body with dread or relief. When Tritter grabbed him by the back of the head and bowed him over the foot of the bed, however, House's panic returned, and he struggled to rise, desperate to escape the ultimate degradation to which he was about to be subjected.
Tritter pulled him up, just long enough to hit him in the face again. While he was too disoriented to fight, Tritter wrapped the belt around his neck, pulling the end of it through the buckle and pulling it taut.
House gasped for breath that wouldn't come, his bound hands rising to grasp uselessly at the firm leather that constricted his throat, as Tritter wrapped the length of the belt around his fist, holding it firm behind House's head. He leaned in close, holding House so that he could not pull away as he spoke quietly into his ear.
"You've got a choice, House," he murmured with a smug smile of satisfaction on his lips. "You can fight – like an idiot – or you can breathe. Which of those options sounds better to you right now, huh?"
House wanted to hold out, wanted it desperately. Every shred of pride and dignity he had remaining demanded that he resist his captor, that he refuse to submit despite the choking grip of the leather belt around his throat – but in the end, his survival instincts won out. Just before he would have passed out, his fingers ceased their frantic scrabbling at the belt, and he raised his bound hands over his head, abruptly going still in Tritter's grasp. Unable to speak, it was the only way he had of showing the man that he would not fight.
Tritter immediately eased up, loosening the belt slightly, nodding his approval. "Good…good choice, House. Smart choice. Now you're gonna keep still and quiet and do as you're told – or you're gonna die. Got that?"
House nodded, his eyes closed as he pressed his face into the mattress, fighting back a wave of nausea at the thought of what he was agreeing to accept.
"Good," Tritter repeated, running his hand slowly down House's quivering flank before removing his hand to unfasten the front of his own pants, shoving House's face down harder against the mattress. House heard a quiet crinkling sound, and was vaguely relieved that at least his rapist was going to wear a condom. "You've had this coming for a long time, House," he reminded him. "Mr. Always-Has-to-Be-in-Control. Let's see how powerful you feel when I get done with you!"
House tried to prepare himself – bracing himself for the pain, trying to focus on something, anything but the ominous heat of the body that was pressing against him from behind. He was determined not to give Tritter any further satisfaction, no matter how degrading and painful this was going to be.
Don't scream…don't make a sound…don't let him see that it matters…
His mental preparations were useless.
In an instant, every thought, every attempt at rationalizing what was happening to him and compartmentalizing it, vanished, swallowed up in a sea of agony. A strangled cry of pain escaped his lips despite his best efforts, slipping past the restriction of the belt around his throat.
Tritter laughed – and House felt a sick wave of shame overwhelming him.
It was brutal and ruthless and violent – and over mercifully quickly.
Except – it wasn't over.
House had a few brief moments to try to recover from the trauma of what had just happened as Tritter finally released him, allowing him to collapse against the bed, his shoulders shaking with repressed shock, his entire body throbbing from the abuse it had taken. He swallowed back a sob of humiliated suffering, struggling to compose himself, while his face was still buried in the mattress, and he still had the ability to at least partially conceal his emotions.
As soon as he had cleaned himself up and zipped up his pants, however, Tritter grabbed the end of the belt again, jerking House up off the bed by the makeshift leash around his neck. House was not able to move quickly enough to avoid the belt's pulling painfully taut against his throat again, and he gagged, struggling for breath and balance as Tritter forced him to his feet.
"Come on, House," he sneered with false cheer. "Don't tell me you're wearing out on me already." He lowered his voice to a whisper, adding in an ominous voice of sadistic glee, "We're just getting started."
House's heart sank as Tritter dragged him back out into the main part of the house, shoving him to his knees, his back toward the three leering, laughing men who were waiting for them there. Tritter knelt on the floor beside him, using his grip on the belt to jerk House's face forward against the floor – leaving him humiliatingly exposed to the eager eyes of his tormentors.
"Don't be shy, boys. He's not." Tritter's voice was soft as he ran a deceptively soothing hand through House's hair, holding his head firmly down, his hands pinned in front of him so that he was helpless to resist. "Come on – who's next?"