Cuddy blinked, startled by House's furious outburst. His fists were clenched at his sides, his eyes blazing with fury, his jaw set in stubborn anger.
"You're… kidding, right?" she replied at last, her voice flat, a single brow quirked upward in challenge. "Because if by manipulative and interfering you mean saving your life, well, that's just something you're going to have to live with. If I'd minded my own business, you might be dead right now!"
"No, I wouldn't!" House snapped back in disgust. "It was Wilson who called the ambulance, Wilson who got help last night. You didn't do anything but show up and get in the way!"
Cuddy flinched, hurt. "Yeah. And your life wouldn't have been in danger to begin with if not for him! He could have killed you last night, instead of playing whatever stupid mind game he's decided to play, and if I hadn't come by to check on you, and found out what happened, I wouldn't have been able to keep him away from you last night, when he came in here, probably to kill you!"
"He wouldn't have killed me," House's tone was dismissive. "What's the point of all of this if he was just going to kill me?"
"The point of all what, House?" Cuddy stepped closer to him, seizing on this minor slip. "I thought it was a suicide attempt."
House glanced pointedly around the room before returning his gaze to hers. "I don't see anyone in here worth convincing, do you? And while you were gone I highly doubt that you managed to put on a wire to secretly record this conversation. Though, that would have been brilliant…"
"Damn," Cuddy muttered, snapping her fingers in an exaggeratedly frustrated gesture. "That would have been a good idea."
House didn't crack a smile.
"This isn't about Wilson," he informed her quietly, his voice trembling with rage. "That isn't your business, either, and you had no right to tell my mother anything about what's going on between Wilson and me." He paused, his voice lowering as he added, "But this is about you running your mouth to my mother about things you know nothing about."
"House…" Cuddy's voice softened with sympathy. "…last night… you were kind of out of it. You said… you said some things, and… it wasn't hard to put the pieces together. Your father…"
"It's none of your business."
"If not for your father, Wilson would never have been able to take things this far…"
"You don't know a damn thing about it!" House pounded his fist down on the railing of the hospital bed. "Guesses! That's all you've got! You don't know anything about my childhood, and you don't know anything about my mother, and you've got no right to try to criticize her for things she couldn't do anything about!"
"What things, House?" Cuddy's voice was soft, leading, latching onto the accidental cues he gave away in his anger. "House… what things couldn't she do anything about? I thought nothing happened."
House shook his head slowly, swallowing hard as he glared at her, his eyes guarded and defensive. "This is none of your business. You shouldn't have called them. You shouldn't have told them anything about Wilson. And you damn sure shouldn't have told my mother that she was a… a failure."
"I didn't," Cuddy objected quietly. "I didn't tell them it was Wilson. All they know is that… someone hurt you. Someone's been hurting you." At House's disgusted roll of his eyes, she explained. "The police report calls it an attempted suicide. That's what the nurses have been saying. Did you really want your parents to believe that's what it was?"
No, House didn't want that, but he was stuck between the truth Cuddy already knew, and the lies Wilson demanded that he try to pass off as truth. He looked away, swallowing hard, refusing to respond.
"House…" Cuddy cautiously sat down in the chair beside his bed, resting her hand on the railing a few inches from his, afraid to touch him. "…why do you want anyone to believe that's what it was? Why would you go along with this? We both know Wilson did it. Why would you want to let him get away with it?"
House turned his head further away, but she could see his breath quickening, saw the emotions he struggled to repress.
"House," she whispered, her fingers edging along the railing to brush tentatively against his. "Please…talk to me. You were ready to stop him, House. You were ready to stand up to him. And suddenly, you're going along with this crazy story he's come up with?"
"Yeah, 'cause standing up to him worked out so well for me, didn't it?" He waved a hand in a vague gesture indicating the hospital room, the entire situation. "That's what led to this."
"But if you'd tell the truth, House," Cuddy insisted, urgency in her voice, "there's evidence this time! We can get him… help. We can get him into some kind of therapy. If you just go along with his story, nothing's going to change. Not until one of you ends up dead." She paused, swallowing back her own tears, keeping her voice even and calm as she added, "Easy odds on which one of you that would probably be."
House was silent again, stubborn and sullen.
"House… you don't have to go along with him on this. He can't come near you right now. I've got your room guarded, and he's not allowed in the hospital at all. And if you tell the police what really happened, that can be made permanent, House. You don't have to put up with this anymore. You don't have to go along with him."
House was silent for a long moment, though he slowly turned his face back toward her, and Cuddy sensed that he was working up the courage to speak.
"I… I was confused," he admitted at last, his voice barely over a whisper. "The.. the drugs. I didn't… really know what was going on. He… he told me to say… all of it. That I lied. That I tried to kill myself. And… and the state I was in, I… couldn't do anything else, really."
"I know." Cuddy's voice was gentle, understanding, and the vulnerability in his eyes made her feel that it was all right to place her hand on his. "I know you really couldn't help it that night, House. You had no other choice. He had you drugged and… and brainwashed, and there was nothing else you could have done. But… but now…" She hesitated, weighing her words carefully. "…now, you do have a choice, House. You don't have to keep up the lies now."
House was quiet again for a long time, blinking rapidly, and Cuddy was startled when she saw a single tear trail down his cheek. He angrily swiped at it with his free hand, rolling his eyes at his own weakness before ruefully meeting her eyes.
When he finally spoke again, his words were soft, aching with a bewildered sense of loss.
"It's Wilson, Cuddy. It's Wilson." He shook his head helplessly, drawing in a deep, shaky breath, letting it out slowly. "I… don't want him to go to prison, or… I can't just… turn him in."
Cuddy's voice was stern, certain, as she replied, "House. He is not the man who was your best friend, not anymore. He's changed, and he's changed so much that if he continues down this path – if you choose this really, really awful time to be all noble and self-sacrificing and let him continue until he kills you – do you think that'll satisfy him? Do you think it'll end there? He needs help, House. Wilson's not himself right now, and if he's ever going to be the Wilson we both love again… he has to be stopped."
"He might not still be my friend, Cuddy," House conceded, the conflict clear in his voice, "but I'm still his."
"Are you?" House looked up sharply to find the challenge in Cuddy's tone mirrored on her face. "Because if you are… it's time to prove it. You can save him, House. If you're really his friend – you will. You'll save him from himself."
Standing outside the door to Amber's apartment, now inhabited solely by Wilson, Chase began to have doubts about his impulse decision to bring Colonel House there. The quiet rage in the older man's eyes told him that things were likely to get ugly – something he should have considered more carefully before driving him to Wilson's address.
At the moment, it had seemed like the thing to do.
According to Cuddy, House was unwilling to talk to the authorities about Wilson, unwilling to do anything to defend himself from his former friend. Chase felt an inexplicable protective anger at the idea of Wilson attacking House without mercy, while the older man simply took the abuse without fighting back. The thought of someone else stepping in, coming to his defense, had been very appealing back at the hospital.
Now, however – Chase wasn't quite so sure.
What if Wilson decides to call the cops? What if they don't believe our story? What if Wilson has a gun, or…?
Col. House rapped loudly on Wilson's front door.
None of that matters. Too late to turn back now…
Wilson didn't answer immediately, and despite the fact that his car was parked outside, Chase felt a moment's irrational hope that perhaps he was not home. Col. House knocked again, louder, and Chase waited for his hopes to be either confirmed or denied.
After a few moments the door swung open, and Wilson stood in the doorway. He gave Chase a confused frown before focusing on the other man. As soon as he recognized House's father, Wilson's eyes widened with alarm. Before he could close the door in their faces and retreat, however, John House pushed him back out of the doorway and made his way into the apartment.
Chase hurriedly followed him, glancing anxiously around outside for a moment to be sure no one had observed them before closing and locking the door. By the time he turned around to face the other two, John House already had Wilson by the collar, pinned up against the wall beside the door.
"Are you crazy?" Wilson hissed, his voice shaky and higher than usual. "What's the matter with you?"
John House was not buying Wilson's innocent act. "What did you do to my son?" he growled.
"Nothing!" Wilson sputtered. "He tried to kill himself, and I saved his life! Or didn't he tell you that part?"
"Yeah. That's why he's terrified of you, isn't it?" Chase put in, and John glanced over his shoulder, frowning. "Should've seen him when Wilson walked in earlier," Chase clarified for John's benefit. "Heart rate through the roof, desperate to get away. He's scared to death of Wilson."
The words were like gasoline on the flames of Col. House's anger. He pulled Wilson away from the wall, slamming him back again with enough force to knock Wilson's head painfully into the wall.
"What did you do to him?" he demanded again. "Drugging him, beating him 'til he can hardly stand… What gives you the right…?"
"I didn't do any of that!" Wilson insisted, trying to twist out of the older man's grip. "This is ridiculous. House is my friend! Why would I hurt him?"
"That's what I'd like to know," John countered. "Dr. Chase here told me about what happened. Sounds like an accident, pure and simple, to me. What right do you think you have to take it out on my son?"
"An accident?" Wilson echoed in disbelieving outrage, his voice trembling with fury, his protestations of innocence disappearing in an instant. "How can you say it was just an accident? If it hadn't been for House, Amber would still be alive! If I did do anything to him, it was no more than he deserved!"
John drew back his fist, plunging it into Wilson's face and silencing his accusations. "He deserved to get beaten to a pulp – more than once? He deserved to get forced into a tub of freezing water, intimidated into lying to the authorities to protect the man who attacked him? He deserved all that, did he?"
A second blow landed in Wilson's stomach, driving the breath from his body, and he doubled over in pain. Col. House released his grip on Wilson's arm, allowing him to sink down to the floor, one arm pressed across his stomach to ease the pain.
"You look at me," John demanded. "You look me in the eye, and tell me you think my son deserved what you did to him."
Wilson was quiet, his breath ragged and shallow as he struggled to regain his voice. After a few moments, he raised dark eyes to meet John House's gaze, an eerie smile playing about the corners of his mouth.
"Well," he replied at last, his voice quiet and breathless, "he did at some point… didn't he? Or at least… you seemed to think so."
Col. House stared down at him, his face pale at the vague accusation that was all too clear to him. His own guilt warred with his rage against his son's abuser; he could hardly believe that Greg would have trusted even Wilson with the truth about his childhood. His voice was barely over a whisper as he demanded, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"You know exactly what it means," Wilson sneered, bracing his back against the wall and slowly dragging himself to his feet again, his dark, malicious eyes never leaving John's face. "I didn't do a thing to him – not one thing – that you didn't do to him first."