Wilson frowned in annoyance as his cell phone began to ring.
He looked away from his computer screen and the results of his latest search of Stockholm syndrome, mind control, and various methods of breaking prisoners, to pick up his phone and glance at the screen.
His frown deepened when he read the name and number displayed on the screen.
Blythe House.
He hesitated for just a moment before deciding that this was a call he needed to take. If Blythe was trying to reach her son, it only stood to reason that she would eventually call the hospital – which meant that Cuddy would speak to her, and most likely tell her that she had just recently spoken to Wilson about House. With that in mind, it would seem terribly suspicious for him to continue to avoid her calls.
Besides… if she's already suspicious… if she's put anything together at all… it's better if I know sooner rather than later…
He answered the phone, keeping his tone cordial and mild, as if it was nothing more than a pleasant surprise to hear from her. He interjected appropriate amounts of regret and sympathy when she informed him of the death of House's father, even while inwardly cursing the inconvenient timing that had led her to seek contact with the son she ordinarily spoke with two or three times a year at best.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. House," he told her with as much sincerity as he could muster. "I haven't heard from Greg since he called to tell me he'd quit his job; and he didn't tell me where he was going or how to reach him. You know how he is. I just… assumed that if he wanted to contact me again, he would."
"But… he hasn't." Blythe sounded worried.
That was bad… but not as bad as drawing her suspicions onto himself by telling her nothing.
"No, I'm sorry, he hasn't," he informed her apologetically. "But I promise I'll let you know if I hear from him."
He excused himself from the call as tactfully and swiftly as possible, but he'd barely closed the phone when it began to ring again. He glared at the name on his screen, frowning in irritation. He had no desire to speak with Cuddy again.
Why can't that bitch just mind her own business?
"Hello?"
"House didn't go to stay with his parents."
Wilson took a deep breath to steady himself, not wanting to betray his annoyance to Cuddy, especially not while she sounded as worried and suspicious as she did right now. He considered his response before answering in a calm voice of mild concern.
"I know. I just spoke with his mother. She's trying to reach him. Naturally, I didn't tell her that he told us he was going to be with her…"
"Why would he lie about this?" Cuddy sounded anxious and agitated. "Why would he tell us that's where he was going if he wasn't?"
Wilson was quiet for a moment, making his voice steady and patient when he replied. "He's a grown-up. He can take care of himself… make his own choices. We shouldn't… panic, just because he's not choosing to let us in on those choices lately." He paused, letting a cautious tremor of laughter enter his voice as he reminded her, "That's… not exactly new behavior for him."
It took him about twenty minutes to get Cuddy calm enough for him to be reasonably sure she wasn't going to instigate some kind of official investigation, and to convince her that House was most likely safe and sound, off on some adventure of his own making.
Wilson hung up the phone with a weary sigh, shaking his head and pressing his thumb and forefinger against his eyes for a moment before rising to his feet and heading for the basement stairs.
It was time to check on House.
************************
House's wrists ached from the cuffs that bound his hands behind his back to a single ring in the floor; the familiar dull throbbing in his leg, muted temporarily by his last dose of Vicodin, was slowly seeping back in, beginning to make its presence known again. He was exhausted and thirsty and sore all over from his rough treatment over the past couple of weeks – but he wasn't thinking about any of those things.
House's attention was fully focused on the tiny rectangle of brilliant blue high above his head – his tiny window onto the outside world.
The blindfold had been off for a couple of hours now, and House had used some of that time to take advantage of his temporary, relative freedom, to memorize what little he could see of his surroundings, filing it away for future use should the opportunity arise – but he kept finding his attention drawn again and again to that gorgeous patch of blue.
He was so focused that he was taken completely off guard by the soft touch of Wilson's hand on his disheveled hair. He flinched slightly, startled, but forced himself not to pull away, to simply submit to the display of Wilson's twisted affection. He turned his gaze on his friend, forcing an uncertain half-smile to his lips as he met Wilson's eyes.
He tried not to allow his fear and distrust of his friend to show in his eyes – but it was incredibly difficult. It was so difficult to reconcile the familiar, disarming smile, the warmth in Wilson's eyes, with the cruel threats and menacing voice he'd heard so often over the last couple of weeks. He'd expected Wilson to be… changed, somehow – to appear in some way as monstrous as the image of him had become in House's mind.
But he didn't appear dangerous or frightening at all. He appeared as he always had.
He was just… Wilson.
It was infinitely, painfully confusing.
Wilson returned his smile, his dark eyes warm with relief and approval. "You're doing so well, House," he mused, sitting down on the floor beside House, carefully setting down the tray he held with his free hand on the floor. "You haven't tried to escape… haven't talked back to me or even asked me for anything for the past three days. That's some really amazing progress from where we were… and I'm really proud of you."
House was quiet, unsure how to respond, and unsettled by the surge of ridiculous pleasure and pride he felt at Wilson's approval.
Wilson left House's wrists bound as he fed him his meal – a medium-rare steak, perfectly prepared, with a loaded baked potato and Wilson's signature salad. House savored the pleasant flavors and fragrances – one of the only pleasures he was allowed at all these days. Wilson gave him a glass of milk with which to wash it down, giving him his next dose of Vicodin with it.
House felt an unwelcome rush of gratitude for the relief the pill offered, and reminded himself once again that in this insane circumstance, Wilson was the enemy. He couldn't afford to allow himself to fall for Wilson's mind games and manipulations. He was simply biding his time – waiting until Wilson trusted him enough to give him a chance to escape.
"House…?"
House started, glancing up at Wilson again through wide, fearful eyes at the slightly threatening tone of Wilson's voice. House's stomach dropped when he saw the dark, cold glint of madness and suspicion in Wilson's eyes, and his mouth went dry with fear at the soft, pensive question from Wilson's lips.
"What are you thinking?"
House's mind raced, panicked, desperately seeking a convincing answer to the question – an answer that would not get him viciously punished.
Well, the truth certainly isn't an option…
He hesitated, his voice halting and tremulous as he answered. "I was… thinking… how much I appreciate your… giving me my Vicodin again. I… I needed them so bad, and… and when I wasn't getting them…" He shook his head, looking away, hoping the gesture appeared more subdued and humble than resentful and accusing. "I just… thank you. That's all. Just… thank you, Wilson."
Wilson laughed in soft surprise, reaching out a hand to stroke through House's hair in impulsive affection. "Aww, that's sweet…"
His gentle, disarming tone was immediately betrayed by the unexpected, brutal backhand that fell across House's face, knocking him backward onto the floor. Wilson caught a handful of his hair, jerking him painfully back up onto his knees. House cringed, his entire body taut and trembling with restrained panic as Wilson crouched close to him, studying his face with such raw, intrusive scrutiny that House trembled in dread of what he might find there.
"Now how about the truth, House?" Wilson whispered close to his face, a cold smile on his lips. "How about you tell me what you were really thinking just then? Before I have to find another way of getting it out of you? And you know I will, House – one way or another."
House bit back the panicked cry that rose to his lips as Wilson slid his hand slowly back and forth across the scarred place on House's thigh. He shook his head pleadingly, his mind unable to focus on anything but the dreadful threat of suffering hanging over his head.
"Wilson… no, please… I wasn't…"
"Don't make it worse by lying again, House," Wilson warned him, his hand going still and tightening slightly. "Tell me. What. Were you thinking?"
House struggled through the haze of terror to think of the right words to convince Wilson of his loyalty and submission. It was confusing, trying to balance what he actually thought and felt with what he knew he should be thinking and feeling, as well as with what he needed Wilson to think he felt and thought. Wilson's reactions were so volatile, so frighteningly unpredictable, that he had no way to be sure of what words would appease him, and what words would only incite his fury to more dangerous levels.
A moment of clarity struck him, as a single thought went through his mind.
The only way to beat him at his own game… is to let him win.
"I… I'm sorry," he stammered, his eyes closed, gulping in a desperate draught of air as he struggled to control his own terrified reaction. "I just… I didn't want to… to make you angry, but… I was just thinking about… g-going outside again." He hesitated, his voice hushed and trembling when he continued pleadingly, "I'm going crazy locked up down here, Wilson. I… I know you know what's best… I know you don't want me asking, so… so that's why I didn't… but… but I can't help thinking it."
House knew better than to tell another outright lie, knew that Wilson would recognize his attempts at deception. He had to give Wilson something that was actually true and genuine, and therefore believable – but he could hardly tell him that he'd been thinking about how to outsmart him and escape, eventually. So, he settled on the admission of his longing for freedom.
It wasn't exactly a lie – but it wasn't exactly the answer to Wilson's question, either.
"I'm sorry," House whispered, swallowing back a very real sob of terror. "Please… don't… don't be mad, Wilson. I just… I didn't want to… to make you mad…"
Wilson was silent for a long moment, and House finally ventured to open his eyes, simply because he had to know how his captor was reacting to his explanation. Wilson's dark gaze was cool and unyielding, but the hard lines of his mouth had softened with sympathy.
"I'm glad you were honest with me, House," Wilson relented at last, his tone guarded and warning. "But you have to know that I can't let you go outside yet – not as long as you're still not being open with me about these things. You were honest just now – but you lied to me before, and that means I still can't trust you."
House tensed in anticipation of pain as Wilson jerked him closer, yanking his head back to emphasize his complete vulnerability.
"I decide when the time comes for you to be allowed that great a privilege," Wilson reminded him in a voice of soft steel. "And it's not now… not yet." He paused, before releasing House abruptly and rising to his feet, reaching out to pick up the discarded blindfold from the floor.
House's heart sank, and he shook his head slowly, pleadingly, but dared not voice his protest.
"Since you're obviously ungrateful for the privileges that have been restored to you – maybe a little time without them might help you appreciate them more."
House had no choice but to submit and silently accept the blindfold as Wilson tied it over his eyes again, and left him bound and in total darkness in the lonely silence of his basement prison.