Hide and seek – part two

"Hey Lisa, great party!"

Smiling, she offers her cheek for a kiss. "Donald! Lovely to see you." He kisses her with enthusiasm, leaving a damp lip mark behind. He's one of the hospital's keener fund-raisers so she waits until he's disappeared back into the crowd before wiping at her cheek with a tissue.

The annual spring fund-raiser is one of the more popular events on the hospital's calendar. This year one of their ex-patients has loaned them the use of a local hotel ballroom. The surroundings are luxurious and people have dressed accordingly. Tux and evening dresses are the outfits of choice and often she does a double take; it's rare she sees her staff out of scrubs and white coats. .

Methodically she works the crowd, picking out the sponsors and fund-raisers who she knows will be expecting to see her. Glancing around she can see her department heads doing the same thing; they're a well-oiled fund-raising machine. To her left Wilson is talking to Geraldine Buckley, local businesswoman and formidable battle-axe. He's leaning in, making eye contact and even from this distance she can sense the charm oozing from every pore. Geraldine's a tough act but her lips are twitching and finally there's a smile.

Resisting the urge to cheer she catches Wilson's eye instead and winks. There's a surprised blink in reply and then his attention is back on Geraldine. Grinning, she turns her attention back to the rest of guests.

Heading to the bar a while later, she spots a man who is strangely familiar but who she can't quite place. Tall, lanky and wearing a tux that is several sizes too big for him, he's standing in one corner, with his back to the wall. It's his thick dark eyebrows that provide the final piece of the puzzle and smiling she wanders over.

"You must be David?" He stares back at her, his expression blank and for a second she thinks she's made a mistake. Then he smiles and the family resemblance is there again, although a pale imitation of the Wilson she knows.

"You must be Lisa."

"Ah."

"Jimm-." He stutters then corrects himself. "James has told me all about you. House said-"

Grimacing, she laughs. "Don't tell me. I don't think I want to know."

"Probably not."

They stand in silence and for the first time that evening she struggles for something to say. She's had brief conversations with Wilson during the two months since his brother reappeared but he's always seemed pre-occupied. They've never had a proper conversation about what's happened and now it seems like David isn't ready to share either. Not surprising, she realizes; it's not the kind of thing she'd share with a total stranger either.

The trouble is she can't shake the thought that he isn't a stranger, at least not at first glance. Up close she can see the facial bone structure and brown eyes that must be a Wilson family trait. David is handsome, eye-catching, despite his skin being weathered after years living on the streets. His eyes are wary though, darting around the room. And unlike his younger brother he doesn't ooze confidence and comfort; at the moment he's having exactly the opposite effect on her.

"Don't like parties?" she offers finally, nervousness making her speak.

"Nope. Just don't like people," he deadpans back, taking a swig of the fruit juice that he's clutching.

She smiles. It's a House-type comment and she's used to those. A sideways glance at his face though and the witty comeback dies on her lips. There's no sparkle in his eyes, just a flint-hard blankness that sends a shiver down her spine.

Taking a deep breath he pushes his way through the crowd, heading for the reception area. Sweat's trickling down inside his collar and he tugs at it impatiently, grunting with satisfaction as the bowtie flies undone. He'd told Jimmy this was a bad idea but his brother had insisted anyway and now he feels like a lab rat and all he wants to do is get out, away from all these searching eyes.

They are nice people; his brother's friends always were. But hanging around with people involves smiling and lies and questions he doesn't want to think about. And he really wants a drink or a cigarette at least.

Feeling inside his jacket pocket his hand closes around a hipflask and a battered packet of cigarettes. He pulls out the latter and lights up as soon as he reaches the exit. His brother's apartment is spotless and sneaking a cigarette there makes him feel like a teenager again; sometimes he can even imagine his father's disapproving voice. Taking a long drag he enjoys the moment, exhaling through his nose and watching the smoke drift lazily through the air.

"Playing hooky?"

Surprised he inhales, triggering a bout of coughing. Behind him he can hear laughter. Turning around he finds House sitting on a couch, a cigar dangling from his fingers. He gestures at the empty seat beside him, sitting down when House nods his consent.

"Don't like parties," he offers, taking another drag on his cigarette. "You?"

House taps his leg with his cane. "Forgot my dancing shoes."

They sit in silence. House intrigues him; he's not like the friends Jimmy used to have. His sense of humor is caustic, frequently verging on the edge of mean. He doesn't seek approval or conform and rarely bothers to help others out. He's everything, in fact, that his brother is not. He likes that. But it confuses him and after two months he still feels like he's no closer to figuring it out.

It's also too much effort so instead he leans back and relaxes. From their spot in the reception they can still see the party and he sniggers as a familiar head of brown hair slowly bobs its way through the crowd.

"He's always been good at this," he explains when House quirks an eyebrow upwards. "Parties. Fund-raisers. Arranging things. Arranging people," he elaborates, inhaling deeply. "They just eat out of his hand."

House shrugs. "Useful skills for a Head of Department." He smiles wickedly. "So they tell me."

It's that trait he likes, he decides, that sense of irreverence. Jimmy's never had it: he's always trying too hard to please. Maybe, he thinks, his brother's actually learnt something during the time he's been away. Then he remembers the lecture he'd received earlier that evening about the perils of too much alcohol and he changes his mind.

The hipflask is still in his pocket, sandwiched between the couch and his side. The thought alone is enough to make his lips dry and reflexively he licks them. The sight of his brother appearing out of the crowd, carrying a bottle of whiskey and three glasses, is like a mirage in the desert. He blinks in surprise.

"Thought I'd find you two out here."

Jimmy perches on the arm of the couch, next to House and fills the glasses. It's strange having his brother hand him a glass of whiskey when he's still smarting from the lecture he'd received earlier on and he pulls a face. "If you don't want it…" Jimmy threatens and he grabs it before his brother can change his mind. Downing it all he smiles at the warm glow that's spreading to his toes.

He watches as his brother and House clink their glasses together in a silent toast. He's noticed this too, the way they either verbally bounce off each other or sit in silence – there doesn't seem to be any middle ground. The silence makes him feel excluded though and that confuses him too.

Staring morosely into his empty glass it takes him a second to realize they're not alone. Lisa Cuddy is walking towards them, her hair bouncing in time with her determined stride.

"You're so busted," House announces gleefully, nudging his brother in the ribs.

Lifting his hands up, Jimmy announces his surrender. He always gives in too easily. "Don't tell me. Geraldine, right?" Lisa nods in sympathy as he gets up with a groan.

House smirks and nudges him with his cane. "Up and at them, champ. Just think of all the little cancer kids. And try not to focus on her false eye."

"She hasn't got one," his brother shoots back then stops, turning slowly. "Has she?"

"House!"

Lisa's tone is scandalized and the two men are laughing. House continues throwing insults as the other two head back to the party. It's not until they've disappeared into the crowd that he notices Jimmy has taken the whiskey bottle with him.

Hunting around in his pocket he finds another cigarette. Some things haven't changed at all, he decides. It's going to be a long night.

The drive from his apartment to his parents takes just over two hours. It's a journey he doesn't do often enough, as his mother often reminds him, but its one he usually looks forward to, when his schedule allows.

Today he's got butterflies in his stomach and the urge to turn back is overwhelming. Beside him David is sitting silently, his expression unreadable. It's taken them two months and the cancellation of three previously planned trips to get to this point. He'd always imagined he'd be excited if this day came. Now he's just trying not to be sick.

As they turn off the freeway and cover the last few miles, he forces himself to relax a little and enjoy the familiar scenery as they pull into town. As a child he'd found the place boring; as an adult he appreciates its peace and quiet. It'd had a lively center at one time, before all the younger people left. Now it's still busy although the buildings are dilapidated around the edges.

"This place is still a dump." David is still staring out of the window, his arms crossed, lips pursed together.

Stung, his first reaction is to jump to the town's defense. That's irrational, he reminds himself. He never used to like the place either; it's one of the reasons he chose McGill over somewhere closer. Biting back a sigh he carries on driving.

Clenching the steering wheel harder he turns into his parent's street. Beside him David shifts in his seat, nervously running his hand over his face. He'd called ahead to ask them to keep everything low key but his mother had sounded so excited. His worse fears are confirmed as he spots bunches of balloons tied to the porch.

Pulling into the driveway, he turns off the engine and they sit looking nervously at the house. This is ridiculous he tells himself sternly and presses twice on the horn. Ignoring David's glare he climbs out of the car and waits.

His mother and father appear, shortly followed by their younger brother Peter. Mentally sighing, he pulls together a smile. Low key for him had not meant including Peter. It's selfish, he knows, but this trip is already turning out to be hard enough.

Everyone is frozen in their places, like actors waiting for their leading man to appear. Realizing who is missing he leans down and taps on the window. David stares back at him, eyes wide with fear. He smiles back sympathetically, silently praying that his brother's not going to make him come up with some excuse for why he doesn't want to go in.

His mother solves the problem. Running down the drive she opens the passenger door, leaving his brother with no option. He watches as David's pulled into a hug and his mother repeatedly whispers his name. Pulling back she traces the weathered lines of his face, as if she can't believe it's him. Swallowing hard, he looks away. The moment he found David - the split second when he'd realized it really was him after years of fearing the worst - is still vivid in his mind.

Slowly he walks up the drive. His father steps down to meet him and to his surprise he hugs him. It's brief but when he pulls away the tears in his father's eyes mirror his own. It's not the wild, elated homecoming for David that he's always imagined, just a deep-seated feeling of relief. It's the first time in two months that he's allowed himself to feel it.

The whole thing is repeated again when David appears. Ignoring the stiff set of his brother's shoulders as their father envelops him in a hug, he concentrates instead on the happiness in his mother's eyes. She looks years younger and when she stands on tiptoe to whisper 'Thank you, sweetheart,' in his ear, he feels like a teenager again, basking in the warmth of her approval.

He tries to hold onto that feeling as they stumble awkwardly through dinner. Normally they banter easily. Today there's a list of questions no one dare ask so they're jumping from safe subject to safe subject like frogs crossing a lily pond. Peter's wife and family – two children, white picket fence and a dog – feature heavily in the conversation. It's not a subject he feels particularly comfortable with and looking at David's face he knows he's not the only one. Occasionally he throws in subjects of his own; House, the hospital, whatever TV shows he's caught in the brief moments he's had free at home. But David's only replying in monosyllables and it's not helping the feeling of unease.

It's his father who breaks the uneasy truce, right after they finish desert. "So, David, why didn't you call?" he asks casually as if having a son reappear after ten years is a regular occurrence.

Beside him he feels David tense and glancing down, he sees he's screwed up his napkin into a tiny little ball. Across the table his mother looks panicked. Peter just looks amused.

"That was delicious," he says into the silence, indicating his empty plate. "Is there any coffee?"

Nodding, his mother struggles to her feet but his father speaks first. "David?" She shakes her head at him but he puts his hand up, signaling for silence. "Well? Are you going to tell us?"

David carefully puts his napkin on the table and pushes his chair back. "I'm going for a cigarette."

He knows where to find him. But he still feels a surge of panic as he heads for the back porch. David's never sneaked anywhere in his life, he reminds himself. He always goes out with a bang. Nevertheless he breathes a sigh of relief as he opens the porch door and David's sitting there, lighting a cigarette. His brother snorts as he sits down beside him and he allows himself a small grin in reply. This is familiar territory.

"Stubborn jerk." The words are out before he can stop them. In the past they would have earned him a cheeky smile or a caustic comeback. Now all he gets is a twisted grimace.

"Nothing's changed," his brother offers eventually, exhaling slowly. "It's still you and Peter with me as the odd one out."

"That's not-"

"True? Yes it is." He chokes back a bitter laugh. "They didn't even ask how I was."

"You're safe. That's all that matters."

"Is it?"

David's studying him and he lifts his chin, meeting his gaze. He still feels like he's in limbo, struggling to reconcile this stranger with the image of his brother that he's kept with him during the last ten years. But knowing he's safe is paramount. It always has been. He doubts that David believes him.

"Always thought it'd be you with the wife and kids, not Peter."

He blinks, his mind struggling to switch subjects. With difficulty he musters a smile. "I've tried."

David frowns then nods back towards the house and the people inside. "Bet that sucks. Mom rattling on about her grandchildren."

"We don't talk about it." He shrugs.

There's another snort of laughter as his brother stubs out his cigarette. "Like I said, nothing's changed."

"Yes it has." The words have slipped out again but it's been ten years and he needs something to help him put the pieces back together. He leans forward, using his hands to emphasize his point. "One phone call. That's it all it would have taken. We didn't even know if –"

"So I'm a stubborn jerk, alright?" David's on his feet and walking away from him. "Feel better now?"

No, he feels like shouting but he slowly gets to his feet anyway. This brother he does remember. Arguing will be a waste of time.

When he first moved into Jimmy's apartment he'd spent most of his time asleep. Rest and regular meals have solved that problem; now he spends most of his time watching TV. Occasionally he wanders to the kitchen to search the refrigerator for lunch. But mostly he just sits.

It's driving him mad.

There was a time not so long ago he'd given his right leg for a warm bed and a hot meal. Now, as he stares out of the window and watches people walk by, all he can think about is how much he wants to escape.

Scanning the room, he shakes his head. It's not surprising his brother's rarely here. With its beige walls and lack of personal decoration it's more like a hotel room than an apartment. Given a choice he'd spend all his time working. But of course he doesn't have a job.

The local newspaper is lying on the coffee table. The list of companies who are hiring is on page four. He knows this because every week the newspaper appears like magic with that page slightly pulled out at the top. He's read through it but it's useless. Nobody's going to hire someone like him.

Sighing, he does another circuit of the room then attacks the TV remote control again. He knows all the schedules off by heart. Building houses, cooking pies, childcare and gardening: he's now an expert in it all. He's been avoiding Oprah and Dr Phil – the guests on there don't even know they're born - and the car mechanic programmes just annoy him. He knows more than those guys.

Jimmy's car. He changes direction, heading for the front door. His brother's been having problems with the Volvo. From the description it doesn't sound serious but Jimmy being Jimmy is getting the garage to collect it. It's sitting in the parking lot.

He's good with cars: it's one of the few things he and his father used to agree on. Hunting through the jackets hanging by the door he finds the keys. If he starts now it'll be fixed by tonight.

For some reason it doesn't surprise him that there's a set of basic tools in the trunk. His brother probably doesn't have any idea how to use them but he's bought them anyway. They're good tools too, he decides, weighing them up. Much better than he's used to.

Grunting he thrusts that thought away. He's not that person now. Popping the hood he begins to methodically check everything. The feeling of unease lingers though and his mind keeps traveling back.

It was after he'd been on the streets for a few years that he'd run into Stevie Crowther and his friends. Everyone knew to keep out of Stevie's way. Luck, as usual, hadn't been on his side. Wrong place, wrong time and he'd seen something he shouldn't have. He'd promised Stevie – begged him – that he wouldn't tell anyone what he'd seen. It hadn't been enough.

They'd followed him everywhere after that; getting him to do things he didn't want to do. Refusal resulted in a beating. Sometimes they'd just beat him up anyway. Once they'd discovered his skill with cars things had got worse; Stevie needed a reliable supply of getaway vehicles. It was how he made most of his money.

The fear comes rushing back and he shivers. Stevie never did any of the beatings himself. He had two friends and they were good at it. He shakes his head but he can still clearly see their faces; his memories are bubbling to the surface, exploding in vivid glory. Blood's dribbling down his chin. It's in his mouth too, making him gag but they're dragging him back upright and he's got no time to breathe. Struggling puts all his weight on his shoulder joints and he screams, lashing out with his feet, desperate to get away.

"David!"

Another hand grabs his shoulder and he pulls away, swinging with his fists. There's a satisfying thump as his fist hits soft flesh.

David! Stop!"

The voice is closer, screaming in his ear. Not Stevie he registers vaguely. Not Stevie's friends.

It's Jimmy.

Jimmy's screaming in his ear.

He's on his fourth shot of whiskey by the time his brother re-appears from the bathroom. Jimmy's face is swollen on one side, his cheekbone standing out in angry red relief; there's no doubt it's going to bruise spectacularly. Silently he pours himself another drink.

Clattering noises come from the kitchen. Eventually footsteps approach. He's sitting on the floor next to the couch and he tries not to flinch as his brother slumps down beside him.

"Take it. For your hand."

Jimmy's offering him a towel and it feels like it's full of ice. Confused, he looks down; the knuckles on his right hand are split, lightly speckled with blood. Bile rises in his throat but he does as he's told. Jimmy's doing the same, resting a towel on his cheek.

The silence is claustrophobic. He swallows hard. He has to say something. "I was fixing your car."

"I know." The answer is almost a whisper and he has to listen hard to hear. "Tell me what happened."

It's a demand not a request. Saying the words out aloud isn't easy. He keeps stuttering, starting again but eventually he gets to the end. When he looks over at his brother his eyes are closed, his lips pursed together in a thin white line. Reaching for the whiskey bottle he pours himself another drink.

"You should have called. We could have helped you."

"I couldn't." He takes another swig of his drink.

"Why not?"

Of course he doesn't understand. He's the wonder boy, the son who can do no wrong. "And do what? Come back to this?"

"This?" Jimmy spits the word back at him like a steel barb.

He swallows the remaining whiskey in one go. It warms him inside, giving him the courage he needs. "I've always been the bad boy, the one who's always wrong. Mom and Dad were always on my case –"

"You were doing drugs." His brother is sitting upright now, his hand clenched around the forgotten towel. "And you were drinking." He makes a grab for the bottle, as if making his point.

He grabs it back, tucking it behind him. "I smoked weed a few times. I wasn't doing anything."

"Yeah, right. Nothing is ever your fault."

"Like you'd understand –"

"I've been trying!" He can't ever remember hearing his brother shout. But he's shouting now, his chest heaving as he drags in air. "How can I help if I don't understand!"

Suddenly the room falls silent and they're staring at each other. He can feel the whiskey working its way through his system; he's seconds away from saying something he'll regret. Pushing himself to his feet he heads for his room. He closes the door behind him and stretches out on the bed. For a while the only thing he can hear is the sound of his heart thumping. Then he hears footsteps and the front door slamming shut.