II.

"DNA is a really cool thing," said House. "Did you know that? I bet you did, Wilsie."

Wilson's eyes were shut again. He was still chained unmercifully to the bed. By the sound and direction of House's voice, Wilson guessed he was sitting sprawled on one of the visitor's chairs. By the sound of the television he hadn't known he had, Wilson guessed General Hospital was on. Wilson had never been very good at ignoring people, and the current time was no exception, even though House had intentionally become more and more annoying by the minute in the name department and Wilson was fairly certain that if any nurses walked by they would decide he was gay.

"I don't see where you're going with this," Wilson said. He was still tired and so he kept his eyes shut. Keeping his eyes shut also made it easier to ignore House.

"DNA," House repeated. "Learned about it in med school, didn't you, Jimmy-poo? Nah," he interrupted himself, "don't like that one. Anyway, I'm pretty sure we all did. Amazing stuff, that. Just need a little bit and those cool dudes in the blue uniforms can figure out about anything. Like, oh, I don't know, who to arrest. A strand of hair's good enough. Think you shower that well, Wilsie?"

"You watch too much Cops," Wilson muttered, "and I still don't see where you're going with this."

"I don't believe you're suicidal," House said.

This was interesting. Perhaps he had an ally after all. Wilson cracked open one eye. General Hospital was on. He ignored it. "You still haven't told me why they think I'm suicidal," he said, "and why haven't you left yet? I think it's lunchtime. Don't you have some food to steal?"

"Why would I steal some, Wilsie, when I have your lunch?" House said. "It's so much more fun this way. And better-quality stuff too."

"Look," said Wilson again, for the second time that afternoon, "my name's Wilson, not Wilsie, and I want to know why everyone in the hospital seems to think I'm determined to off myself. Can't you be serious for five seconds and at least explain that?"

House paused and eyed the television. He was quiet for a minute—for House, being serious always took considerable exertion—then he said, still without returning his gaze to Wilson, "Looked at yourself lately?"

Wilson blinked. "Huh?"

"Do I have to spell it out for you?" House yelled angrily, twisting back around in his chair. "You idiot, you look like hell, you've been sleeping in your office all week, you've got about ten damn scars, and you fainted in the damn clinic. What do you think people are gonna believe? That you spend your weekends on the good ship Lollipop?"

It was too much for Wilson. He hated himself, oh, he hated himself for being such a wimp, but it was too much at once. Too much after what had happened that morning—which, he hastily reminded himself, he wasn't going to think about. He began, involuntarily, to shake. His bindings jerked back and forth in a pitiful, bizarre rhythm as he trembled. House, not being an idiot, was fully aware of what was happening; he sighed and got to his feet. For a hesitant moment he made as if he might undo the bindings, but Wilson could not help flinching as he approached, and House shook his head and left the room without glancing back. Wilson, afraid, helpless, frustrated, and unbearably angry—at House, at himself, at the hospital staff, at the leather imprisoning him, at the Foley, at the ridiculous gown, at Julie, at the world—lay still and began, silently, to sob. He cried to himself until he once more was able to recover his composure, and when he had he cried again, because—thanks to his wife—he could no longer wipe away his own tears.

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Cuddy was not terribly surprised by the fact that House was waiting outside her office when she returned. It was really starting to become a regular occurrence, and, though her secretary found him rather disturbing and harbored a secret fear that he was the Unabomber, she discovered that she didn't mind. Even though it meant she had to put up with him, she enjoyed having the company. She was not young any more, she never had liked being alone, and her office tended to get awfully quiet when there was not a scruffy, hulking, six-foot-tall doctor-cum-teenager leaning on his cane and griping in the middle of it.

Today he was waiting in the hallway outside, and he looked more angry than usual. Her secretary's desk was notably empty. That was no surprise.

"I can't believe what you're doing!" House said, as soon as he spotted her approaching.

"What do you mean?" she asked, stepping rather nimbly around him and unlocking her door. This, too, was becoming routine; he would follow her in and explain, as irrationally as possible, his latest complaint—probably about his latest patient, she thought, and something I'm not doing, or not doing to his liking, or, most likely, not letting him do—she would explain, much more rationally, why things were the way they were, and he would sneer, make some biting remark about her clothing, and storm out, usually already coming up with a way to get around her. Aside from her secretary's recent increase in therapy bills, the situation worked. Patients generally lived and she hadn't been sued—not in the past month, anyway.

Dealing with House was all about strategies, compromise (when necessary), and games. Once you got the hang of it, you could handle him. He was not often as cruel of a man as most of the staff believed him to be, though he could do a fine job of living up to his reputation—there was something oddly respectable about him which kept people around. Otherwise, she thought, and laughed, he would've been lynched already; if not by Foreman, then by a patient. Perfect grades in medical school the man had and she'd swear her father's retriever had better social skills.

Of course… the leg. That was a large part of the reason why she tried so hard, fought so hard to make sure he didn't get himself killed. That and the fact that he was one of the best doctors she'd ever had.

Not today, though. Today he was ready to go for the jugular and Cuddy found herself wanting to hide out with her secretary. If she'd just known where the woman was, she might have.

"Are you insane?" House said, banging his cane on the ground angrily, once, twice. A painting on the opposite wall vibrated and fell askew. "Do you enjoy torturing your doctors? Is this some new kink of yours?"

Cuddy sighed and took a much-needed deep breath. "What," she said, upon exhale, "are you talking about?"

"James Wilson. Head of Oncology. Remember, Pied Piper for all the bald little cancer kids?" House hissed. Yes, Cuddy decided, "hissed" was the best word for it.

"Calm down, House, and explain so I have at least an atom of knowledge regarding what, exactly, you mean. What about Dr. Wilson?"

"He is chained to a bed," House said, biting every word neatly off like rapid-fire pellets from a machine gun, "humiliated, devastated, and beat nearly to death, though he would never admit to any of it. And your damn staff is calling him suicidal. You know Wilson as well as I do. Suicidal? It's his damn wife, not a Gillette in the tub at midnight, that's for damn sure, and I—"

Cuddy held up a hand. "Three things, House. First, I had nothing to do with this. Wilson fainted at my feet and I had a meeting, so I paged you to take care of him. It's not my fault if you didn't answer and someone else got there first. We are, if you'll remember, in a hospital.

"Second, if someone is hurting Wilson, he needs to call the police. You can think it's his wife all you want, but unless you can come up with some kind of proof, you're going to have to get him to admit it. I have no idea one way or the other.

"And third—" She paused. "Third, House, why do you care?"

House stared at her. "I'm cruel," he said, "but I'm not that cruel."

Cuddy was silent for a moment, and then she nodded. "I'll make sure he gets set free," she said. "You're right. The man fainted, he didn't slit his throat."

"Good," said House, and with that he turned and left.

Despite the seriousness of the moment, Cuddy laughed when her secretary poked her head up from behind her blotter and slid quietly into her seat again. Then she picked up her pager and set about the business of removing one of her best, most reputable doctors from suicide watch. Of all the things to be doing on a Monday—and for Wilson, of all people. What were the odds?

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In his lifetime, Wilson could not remember ever feeling more relieved than he did as the nurse on duty undid his bindings, her fingers deftly sliding along the leather like a magic trick. She said nothing about the drying salty tracks of tears on his cheeks or the way he shrank back when she leaned too close, overly-painted lips brushing together mere inches from his eyes and musky, flowery perfume flooding his senses. When he'd thanked her and she left him alone again, he adjusted his bed to a proper sitting position—he didn't feel well enough to get up yet—tried to cover himself more effectively with the thin hospital blankets, rubbed his eyes with one hand, and settled down to study the insides of his eyelids for a bit. House, in his insulting, blunt way, had been right; he did look like hell. He felt rather like it as well, and he intended to amend the situation as soon as possible. He could do nothing for the scars he bore on his forearms and upper thighs but hide them, which did not work so well when he had to wear a hospital gown; that was, he thought, probably why whichever staff had found him on the floor had deemed him suicidal. He certainly didn't look sane, and he didn't blame them—he would've done the same thing.

Wilson shifted his head an inch or so in order to arrange it more comfortably on the pillow and closed his eyes. For the first time in a little too long, he thought, he might get some sleep.