House's situation over the last few months had been a scary one indeed. He had been kept constantly off his guard, unsure what to expect from Wilson next, what to do in order to prevent more suffering at the hands of his friend. His days and nights were nothing more than a constant struggle to survive, and to keep from losing his mind.

In all that time, he had never been more terrified than he was in this moment.

Wilson's behavior, while never exactly stable lately, had become gradually more and more panicked and erratic. He was pacing back and forth across the floor of the tiny motel room, muttering to himself, shaking his head, trying to work out some problem while thinking aloud. Every few minutes or so, he would stop, alarmed by some imagined sound, rushing to the window or the peep hole in the door and peering out through narrowed, paranoid eyes.

House never heard any of the sounds Wilson thought he heard.

He's losing it. Completely.

It occurred to him at one point that he should probably be trying to think of a way to take advantage of that knowledge; but he couldn't seem to focus through the fear for long enough to come up with any sort of logical plan. Every time he had an idea, it was immediately followed by several ideas of how it might go wrong, and what Wilson in this crazed state might do to him in retaliation.

Not that there was much he could do, anyway.

He was on the floor beside the dresser, handcuffed to it so that he was unable even to stand. There was really nothing he could do besides sit there and wait to see what Wilson would do next.

Wilson had had the television on all day, alternating it between CNN and a local station. He hadn't left the room even for a moment, despite his frequent trips to the door and windows. He had gone to the bathroom once, but besides that brief period, he had not left House alone at all. Still, most of Wilson's attention at the moment seemed directed toward the television, and not toward House.

House was fairly certain that in a horribly screwed up situation like this, that was probably a good thing.

He was hungry and thirsty, exhausted and increasingly in pain, but dared not protest in any way, or do anything to draw Wilson's attention toward him. By the time the sun began to set, however, the light through the drawn blinds beginning to glow with a reddish tint, House knew that they could not go on like this much longer. Something had to happen to push Wilson into some kind of motion, for better or worse.

And then… something did.

"This is a breaking report coming out of Princeton, New Jersey. Police are on the lookout for this man, Dr. Gregory House, thought to be in the company of one Dr. James Wilson…"

House looked up in alarm toward the television just in time to see Wilson's picture come up on the screen. His stomach lurched, his heart suddenly racing as a sense of dread came over him, and he immediately looked toward Wilson for his reaction as the newscaster continued reporting the story.

"… thought to be a case of abduction. Wilson is considered to be armed and dangerous. Anyone who believes they've seen him should contact their local law enforcement immediately, and should not attempt to approach him or apprehend him on their own. Any such attempts could result in serious harm either to oneself, or the hostage involved…"

"Hostage?" Wilson echoed the word in a low, dangerous whisper that sent a shiver of apprehension down House's spine, his fists clenching and unclenching reflexively at his sides. "Is that what they think you are to me? Do they seriously think that I've just, taken you along with me as some kind of insurance to keep from getting caught?"

The fury in Wilson's voice gradually built, his pacing quickening as he went on. "I knew they'd say this, I knew no one would understand! I am doing this to protect you, and they just don't get it! They're gonna try to send me to prison just for trying to take care of you, and then what's gonna happen to you, huh? Is anyone but me even considering that?"

House wasn't sure whether or not Wilson wanted a response to his ranting questions, or how he should answer if he did. The wisest course of action at the moment seemed to be simply keeping his mouth shut. He watched Wilson's pacing with wary eyes, flinching when Wilson rounded on him all at once, closing the distance between them to crouch directly in front of him.

"I'm trying so hard," he confessed, frustration evident in his trembling tone. "I'm doing everything I can do to keep you safe, but nothing's working. Everything keeps falling apart, no matter how hard I try."

His words broke off abruptly as he raised a hand to cover his face, his shoulders shaking. House stared at him in bewilderment, stunned to see that Wilson was actually crying. The younger man struggled for a few interminable moments, fighting for control of his own emotions, before finally looking up to meet House's eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and tearful, for the moment not betraying any of the violent rage it had carried only minutes earlier.

"What am I supposed to do, House? Just what am I supposed to do?"

House stared at Wilson with wide eyes full of alarm, feeling trapped and uncertain. There was an expectancy on Wilson's face, making it clear that this time, he did indeed expect a response. House's mind raced as he tried to think of what answer he should give his troubled captor – what answer might somehow convince Wilson to give up this dangerous course of action, without enraging him and pushing him to further violence.

"Maybe… maybe we should just… go home," he suggested in a hushed, hesitant voice. "If… if it's no safer here… if the police are coming after us, then… then maybe…"

He flinched when Wilson suddenly stood up straight, glaring down at him through narrowed eyes filled with accusation. "You want me to go to prison, House?" His voice was low and threatening. "Is that it? I told you what happened to Cuddy. And yet you're asking me to go back there and get arrested and spend the rest of my life in prison? Is that what you want?"

"N-no," House hurriedly amended, shaking his head, drawing instinctively back against the wall. "No, Wilson, I didn't mean… please…"

"I knew I couldn't trust you, I knew it! Why am I even bothering to ask you for advice?" Wilson snarled, fury rising again as he took a menacing step nearer to his captive. "It's your pathetic inability to take care of yourself that's gotten us into this mess in the first place! Why should I bother to listen to you for a second?"

House flinched as Wilson leveled a sharp kick at his midsection, biting back a cry of pain at the bruising impact to his ribcage. Wilson's voice had risen to a manic scream of rage as he kicked out at House again and again, punctuating the blows with a fist across House's face.

"This is all your fault! You did this to us, House! You!" Wilson raged. "You and your irresponsible, reckless, dangerous ways! It's your fault that Amber died, and before you were done, you and I would have been dead, too! I've done everything I can to help you, to keep you from killing yourself, and this is how you repay me? By trying to talk me into sending myself to prison?"

House cringed in preparation for the next blow, but nothing could have prepared him for the brutal impact of the hard toe of Wilson's shoe against his weak, damaged thigh. He couldn't even cry out, the pain was so intense. He tried to gasp, but felt like he couldn't breathe, his body curling in on itself in a vain attempt to protect the vulnerable area. Wilson went silent as well, and House was vaguely aware that that could not be a good thing, even through the agony that consumed his thoughts.

When Wilson crouched in front of him again, moving in close, House flinched, his head jerking back against the wall behind him. He raised his bound hands as high as he could in front of him in a pleading, defensive gesture as Wilson knelt down in front of him, reaching out toward his shoulders. He bit back a moan of pain, eyes closed, trembling in dreadful anticipation of whatever Wilson was going to do next.

The last thing he expected was Wilson's tearful apology.

Wilson lowered his head, his brow resting against House's shaking shoulder as he let out a deep, aching sob. He shook his head slowly back and forth, hands gripping the fabric of House' shirt desperately, as if House was the only thing tethering him to some semblance of reality, of life.

"I'm sorry," he gasped out, pleadingly. "I'm so sorry… I'm sorry…"

House's mouth was dry, his stomach roiling with the fear of accidentally doing something wrong, some accidental misstep to cause Wilson's mood to shift yet again. "It's okay," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "It's okay…"

"No," Wilson objected, grief-stricken in his regret. "No, it's not. It's not okay."

He looked up, meeting House's eyes with sorrow in his own as he shook his head. "I'm sorry, House. I never… never meant to hurt you. This whole thing was always about making sure you didn't get hurt – but apparently, it was a really bad idea."

House cautiously looked up at Wilson, swallowing hard. He tried not to look too hopeful, not to allow Wilson to see the effect those words had on him. After so long in the midst of this nightmare, House barely dared to imagine that those words might mean what he thought they did.

"Apparently, it doesn't matter what I do. You're still going to be at risk, no matter what. If anything, I've probably put you in greater danger by trying to help you. Dragging you out here to the middle of nowhere, pulling you into the middle of a manhunt…"

House could think of a few other ways in which Wilson's methods had led to his harm, but he knew better than to point them out. He relaxed a little when Wilson slowly stood up straight again, resuming his pacing but with much calmer, more measured steps.

"I just don't know what to do anymore. You're right. It's no safer here than anywhere else. I can't protect you anymore." Wilson walked to the bed and sat down beside his open briefcase that was laid out upon it. "I can't keep you safe," he repeated, his voice soft and calm. "But I can't watch you self-destruct, either…"

"Then… I won't," House ventured finally, his voice low to disguise its trembling. He struggled to find the right words, his eyes locked warily onto Wilson's face, as a disconcerting feeling of alarm began to creep in, in response to Wilson's unnatural calm. "I… I've learned from this, Wilson. I know that I was… was making stupid choices, doing dangerous things. I've learned, and I'm going to be so much more careful and responsible and…"

"No, you're not." There was no anger in Wilson's voice or expression as he looked up at House with a sad smile. "It's no use lying to me, House. I know you won't ever change. You're who you are, and you're never going to be anyone else." He paused, soft affection creeping into his tone as he added, "I wouldn't really want you to be."

House waited in silence, having no answer for those words, confused and unsettled by Wilson's strange behavior. He watched as Wilson reached into the briefcase, shuffling things around a bit until he found what he was looking for. When Wilson stood up and began to walk back toward House, the item he'd taken from the briefcase became clearly visible, and House's chest constricted, his stomach dropping with terror.

The gun…

"No," Wilson continued with a sad, resigned shake of his head. "There's really only one thing we can do."