Hide and seek – part three

The piano was the first thing he'd bought when he qualified as a doctor. It's larger than the one he had as a child and the pitch is better. Every time he's moved apartments the piano's moved with him. Like an old friend it requires little maintenance and its presence relaxes him.

They're spending quality time together when there's an abrupt knock on the front door. He recognizes the knock and he's about to yell something facetious when the door swings open. Wilson pushes his way through, his hands full of beer, and heads straight for the kitchen.

Surprised, he frowns but carries on playing, only half his attention on the music. Wilson turning up unannounced isn't unusual but recently it's been rare. Even their Friday nights have been intermittent since David moved into his brother's apartment. He's intrigued; Wilson usually has a reason for being here.

When Wilson reappears with two opened bottles, the reason becomes clear. Letting out a low-whistle he studies his friend's face. "Revenge of the killer door?" It's not difficult to guess who did it so asking is a waste of time.

Wilson scowls then slumps on the couch. Apparently the conversation is over. For a second he wavers between the piano and couch. But the bruise on Wilson's face is glowing like a beacon so he goes into the kitchen for some ice instead.

"Take it." Probably a fist he decides as Wilson tilts his head up to look at him. Only a glancing blow but it's got to hurt.

"Don't need it."

Doctors. They always make the worse patients. He drops the bag of ice in the other man's lap and takes the opportunity to grab a seat when Wilson yelps and jumps to his feet. There's a lot of glaring and muttering but eventually Wilson sits down again.

He lets Wilson surf through the channels. He's not really concentrating on the TV; his attention is fixed on the man sitting beside him, with his head propped on his hand and the ice pack pressed against his face. It'll probably take a few more beers before Wilson starts talking – his guess is about three. Leaning back he tries to relax, silently accepting beers every time Wilson makes another trip to the kitchen.

Half way through the third beer Wilson stops drinking and morosely stares at the bottle instead, worrying at the label with a fingernail. Sipping at his own beer he forces himself to be patient. It's coming, he can feel it. Any moment now Wilson will break.

Despite the anticipation the raw pain in his friend's voice still catches him unawares.

"I thought… I figured having him safe would be enough. I figured nothing else would matter…" Slowly he rubs the back of his neck. "He needs help but he won't let me help him. I want… I don't know what to do."

He thought he'd seen most of Wilson's moods. The night Julie walked out on him they'd sat drinking like this and he'd listened to his friend disintegrating as reality gradually set in. But this is different. Wilson sounds lost, desolate.

Leaning over he gently retrieves the remote from his friend. Switching the TV off he limps back over to the piano and settles down to play.

"David! We've got a customer!"

The baritone voice of his new boss, Mr Baker, carries all the way to the back of the stock room. Stepping over boxes and cans he answers the summons. Going from darkness into light makes him squint and he collides with the large shape that's standing in the doorway.

"Sorry, Mr Baker."

"Didn't you hear me?"

Not much chance of that, he feels like saying. He nods instead and goes to serve the customers. They're hardly worth the effort; milk, candy and a packet of laundry detergent. Why anyone would want laundry detergent at 2am is beyond him. Shrugging, he turns his attention to tidying the stock.

Over the top of the shelves he can see Mr Baker watching him. He'll stand there for hours, never saying a thing. The old man had been quick to hire him when he'd enquired about the advert in the window. Jimmy had been the one to tell him about the advert; he's been around too long to believe that's a coincidence.

It works though, this job that he's got. His brother comes home around seven each evening. At nine he starts the night shift at this local store. In the morning he gets home at six and Jimmy goes out at eight. For the few hours they're together they get on okay.

He can't shake the feeling of guilt, even though the bruises have faded. Jimmy's never told him where he stayed that night; following Wilson family tradition they've never discussed it again. Everything's fine - apart from the fact the whiskey bottle's been hidden and they both look like they could do with some sleep.

With a tired sigh he dismisses that thought. The job's mind-numbingly boring and that suits him right now. The hours pass. He stacks shelves and tidies the stock room. It's as he's coming out he notices two men loitering at the front of the store.

His heart sinks as he approaches the counter. They're not Mr Baker's 'type of customers', as his boss has been keen to point out on numerous occasions. Scruffy and dirty; it's not so long ago that he looked like that.

"David?" One of the men is peering up at him, then a toothy smile lights up his face. "It is you."

He stares back, ashamed to discover how quickly he's forgotten this man's name. "Marty?"

"Yeah. Almost didn't recognize you." Marty scratches his head then frowns, checking the store out. "What you doing here?"

"I work here."

"Really?" The other man suddenly becomes animated, his eyes lighting up with interest.

"Just stocking shelves and stuff…" He has a bad feeling about this.

Marty shuffles up to him, grabbing his elbow to pull him down to his level. "We're just after a couple of cans of soda…"

"And maybe some food."

Shooting a panicked glance over his shoulder he realizes he's probably only got seconds until Mr Baker comes to investigate. "Sorry guys, you know I would if –"

"Yeah right." Marty's friend grabs two cans and some cookies and stuffs them inside his coat. "What you gonna do, David? Call the cops?"

"Give them back." But Marty's doing the same now, stuffing packets inside his coat and in slow motion they're heading for the door. Part of him wants to tell them to run; it's what he would have done two months ago. He doesn't feel any loyalty towards Mr Baker. Jimmy's going to be furious though.

"What's going on?"

The familiar baritone sends a shiver down his spine. Mr Baker's appeared from behind the shelves, blocking the exit. There's no way out and from the looks on their faces, Marty and his friend know that too.

"David, call the police."

"No." The voice doesn't sound like his but it must be because everybody else is staring at him. "It's just a couple of cans."

The baritone has turned into a growl. "It's stealing."

That tone flicks on something inside his head. He can feel his hands shaking. "I'll pay for them, okay?"

"David –"

In a split second everything goes wrong. Marty's friend bolts for the exit. In the back of his mind he can hear Mr Baker yelling at him to call the police but suddenly there're fists flying and his brain goes haywire.

"Have you seen Wilson?"

"And a good morning to you too, Dr Cuddy."

His feet are resting on his desk and there's a glint in his eye; two major warning signs that House is in good form this morning. She takes the hint and raises her hands. "I haven't got time for this. Have you seen him or not?" As he leans over to look under his desk she lets out an irritated sigh. "House…"

He gives her his best penitent schoolboy impression. "No."

"Damn. The Board meeting was scheduled to start ten minutes ago and we're supposed to be discussing funding –"

"You're sure he knows about it?"

"This is Wilson we're talking about." Frustration is getting the better of her.

"And he hasn't called?"

"No." Frustration turns to concern as House frowns and slowly lowers his feet. He fumbles in his pocket for his cell, before impatiently stabbing at the buttons. "You think there's a problem?"

"This is Wilson we're talking about." Eyebrows arched, his voice is dripping with sarcasm. "Does he ever miss Board meetings?"

"No, but… " She falters, struggling to put her concerns into words. "He's been distracted lately, ever since David came back. And there was the bruise…" Which he'd never explained, apart from muttering something about killer doors as he'd hurried past her in the corridor. "It's probably nothing," she finishes, not sure quite who she's trying to convince. Obviously not House, who has hit speed dial and begins pacing as he waits for Wilson to pick up.

"Answer service," he snaps, then dials again. "I'll try him at home."

"I've done that. He's not there."

House drops the cell on his desk and starts pacing again. "What about his parents?"

"Why would he –"

"I don't know," he shoots back, lurching towards his desk. "But he's not here, is he."

His tone's biting but she skips the opportunity for an equally curt reply. Logically she knows there must be a perfectly good reason for Wilson not answering his calls. But she's rarely seen House this worried before and he's doing nothing to ease her own concerns.

As House retrieves his cell and starts flicking through his address book, she takes over the pacing. Somewhere in the staff records she's probably got Julie's number. The two of them aren't talking though, as far as she's aware. Wilson's life revolves around the hospital; the list of people who might be able to help is small. And two of them, she realizes, are already in this office.

She's standing at the end of the office, blindly staring through the glass when Wilson stalks past outside, heading in the direction of his office. It takes her brain a second to catch up before she's leaning forward, knocking on the glass. She wonders if she imagined him when he reappears, his face like thunder as he walks into House's office.

"Nice of you to join us." House is still in full sarcastic mode, she notes. He really must have been worried.

"Sorry." Sounding anything but, Wilson is stripping off his overcoat and dumping it and his briefcase in the guest chair. He's wearing jeans and a sweatshirt underneath. Perhaps sensing her frown he gestures vaguely in the direction of his office. "I've got clothes."

They were frantically looking for him a moment ago her wound-up nerves remind her. And from the way House is hunched over his cane she's not the only one expecting an explanation. "You want to tell us wher –"

She trails off as David appears in the doorway. A large piece of the puzzle falls into place. His right eye is swollen nearly shut and his lip is split on one side. She glances over at Wilson but he's apparently more interested in the contents of his briefcase. David shuffles into the office, his hands stuffed into his pockets.

"Wilson?" It's the voice she reserves for errant staff. Years of practice have honed it to a lethal weapon.

Grudgingly he meets her gaze. "We've been at the police station."

She raises her eyebrows in question but it's David who replies. "My fault."

Neither brother is looking at the other; the atmosphere between them is thick enough to cut with a knife. A quick glance at her watch reminds her she hasn't got time to worry about it. "We've got a meeting, remember?"

Wilson nods, pulling files out of his briefcase. David is still loitering and she looks from one to other, not sure what happens next.

"I'll get the bus home."

"No!" She and House flinch at the vehemence of Wilson's voice. His brother is staring at his feet. "I'll be finished here in an hour. I'll drive you home then."

David snorts with laughter but it's not a happy sound. "Worried about your bail money?"

"Bail money?" She can't help herself.

"It was just two cans of soda," David mumbles.

"You assaulted the store owner!" Wilson's eyes are flashing with anger.

"He started it –"

"You shouldn't have –"

"Okaaay, as much as I'm enjoying this touching family get together we've all got places to be." House is limping around his desk, planting himself between the two men who are squaring off like fighters in a ring. "You," he clicks his fingers impatiently in Wilson's direction, "car keys. Rocky," he pokes David in the shoulder with his cane, "you're with me."

The diner is two blocks from the hospital. The waitress hesitates when she sees the state of David's face but he plays the cripple card and she gives in gracelessly, finding them a table at the back where the other customers can't see them.

"So, does the other guy look as bad you?" he asks once the waitress has taken their order.

David doesn't answer him at first, more interested in the ketchup bottle on the table. "Might have a concussion," he offers eventually, his head down.

"Ouch."

"I didn't mean it."

"Like you didn't mean to hit Jimmy?" He feels a stab of satisfaction at David's horrified reaction.

"That was an accident. I didn't know it was him." His fingers tap the side of his head. "Things happen…"

He considers that for a moment, carefully putting the pieces together. "There are people who could help you. Wilson could –"

"No."

Five minutes into the conversation and he's already starting to understand why his friend is so frustrated. He's always thought of himself a master manipulator of people, twisting them around his finger with the power of his words. David's also a master manipulator but his weapon is silence.

Challenges are his specialty though and after the food arrives he opens with salvo number two. "Why did you leave?"

David almost chokes on the French fry that he's carefully feeding through the uninjured side of his mouth. "Jimmy's right. You know just where to prod people."

He accepts the compliment with a shrug. "One of the advantages of not being family. I don't care if you run back to your homeless buddies." He's got fries on his own plate but out of habit he steals one from the other man. "So, spill."

David chews slowly then clears his throat. "I can't remember anymore. I really can't," he insists, when his eyebrows arch in surprise. "It was an argument. There were lots of arguments."

"So you packed your bags and ran off to join the circus."

"Maybe I should have done. At least then I would have had a plan." Snorting, David rubs his face tiredly. "I had a few bucks saved. I thought it would be easy." He snorts again, shaking his head. "There's a reason my brother calls me a selfish jerk."

"He's got a point. Not calling your family for ten years is pretty selfish."

"Thanks." David grimaces then winces, gingerly touching his split lip.

"So now you're back." It's time for salvo number three. "Any particular reason for that?"

"You're a bastard." Again he accepts the compliment with a shrug. David signals his surrender with a sigh and closes his eyes. "It's a cliché; I thought I was dying. Marco asked me about Jimmy –"

"And you knew he'd come running."

Again he feels a stab of satisfaction at the look of guilt on the other man's face. "That's my brother. He just keeps on coming –"

"No matter how many times you knock him down."

David covers his face with his hands. "Yeah."

Leaning back he considers the man sitting opposite him. His initial urge to verbally kick him into the middle of next week is rapidly fading. This is Wilson's brother. And it's obvious he's teetering on the edge. "There are people who could help you."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because he'd want to help."

He doesn't need to ask whom he's referring to. With a sigh he acknowledges the truth. "He doesn't know how not to."

"I need to do this on my own." David's holding his gaze now and he nods, empathy for the man's situation making him agree.

"Okay, so you find someone outside Princeton."

David shakes his head. "Jimmy would know them all –"

"I mean a long way from Princeton."

He studies the other man's face as the words sink in. Exhaustion has robbed him of usual wariness. Every emotion is obvious in his face. It must be a Wilson family trait, he decides, this inability to lie with their eyes.

Eventually David focuses on him again, regret written across his face. "It would mean leaving."

He has to ask the question. "Is that a problem?"

"Yes. No." David shrugs, rubs his eyes, and winces as he touches a sore spot. "I can't stay here. But I can't tell them I'm leaving. Not again."

'I figured having him safe would be enough.' Wilson's words run through his mind, giving him the inspiration he needs. "I think they'll accept it. But it has to be for the right reasons."

Confused, David shakes his head. "I don't see…"

"Let me ask around." Waving the waitress over he asks for the check. Wilson won't be happy when he finds out what they're planning. But another glance across the table reminds him that it's not just David who's going to go mad if this situation carries on. "I want you to promise me something."

"What?" David's looks like a drowning man who's just been offered a life preserver.

"Make sure he understands it's not his fault."

The bombshell drops on a Friday night. He'd been invited over for beer and pizza as usual – or at least that's what he thought.

"California?" Spluttering around a mouthful of beer he marches from the kitchen to confront House who is stretched out on the couch. "Why would he go to California?"

"Marco came up with the idea, he asked around at the shelter." Alarm bells start ringing; House sounds casually offhand. "There's a mission in San Francisco, they need someone to help out. He'd heard David was looking for somewhere to –"

"How did he hear?" Reluctantly House meets his eyes; they're full of regret. Understanding hits with the force of a sledgehammer. "No. He's not leaving."

House pushes himself to his feet and begins pacing. His cane is pounding the floor. "Your brother needs help."

"Which I can get for him." Hands on hips, he's determined to make his point.

"Not this time."

"I can –"

"No." House has stopped. His attention's on a knot in the wooden floor. "You can't fix everyone. You need to learn when to stop."

His stomach roils; there's an element of truth in House's statement. But fear is getting the better of him. David's leaving again, obscuring everything else. "I'll talk to him. Marco must know someone in New Jersey who can help."

"His flight's booked for tomorrow."

House has got his head down; it's difficult to hear what he said. "Tomorrow?"

"He didn't want to make it any worse."

"Worse?" He lets out a bitter laugh, his fear breaking through. "How can it be any worse?" In his minds eye he's replaying what happened the last time his brother left; the fallout has contaminated his family for years.

They go round and round in circles, House delivering his argument calmly and logically. It only serves to feed his fear, stoking it to full-blown anger. When he eventually finds himself out on House's doorstep, reaction making him shiver despite the mild temperature outside, he realizes there's only one place he can go.

The couch in his office wasn't designed as a bed but sleep eludes him anyway. Eventually he passes out in the early hours of the morning. The smell of fresh coffee wakes him up.

His brain's sluggish and it takes him a moment to remember where he is. Tension has made his muscles stiff and with a groan he pulls himself upright. Blinking he focuses on his brother who is hovering nervously beside him, a rucksack by his feet.

"House got me in," David offers in explanation. "Peace offering." A mug of coffee is waved under his nose.

With a resigned sigh he takes it and indicates the empty space next to him. The cushions sink as his brother joins him.

"I should have told you myself."

Rousing himself he takes a sip of the coffee. "No." House is an expert at making people see the truth: he's brutal but effective. "We'd have argued. It wouldn't have solved anything."

"I've already called Mom and Dad." There's a note of remorse in his brother's voice; it grabs his attention. "Mom cried. I think Dad sounded kind of relieved."

He nods. Their reactions mirror his own. Realization makes him feel guilty. "You could stay…"

His brother snorts then nudges him with his knee. "Stop it. You got me back on my feet." There's another nudge, harder this time and he takes the hint, meeting David's gaze. "It's not your fault. You can't fix someone if they don't want to be fixed."

He dips his head in acknowledgment then turns his attention back to his coffee. David's right, he knows that. And so is House. But he still wishes he could turn the clock back ten years. He's always been sure there's something he did wrong.

Rubbing his face tiredly, he acknowledges the truth. "You'll call this time, won't you? It'll kill Mom if…"

David hands him a piece of paper. Written neatly on it are telephone numbers and an address. It's more than they had last time and he folds it carefully then tucks it in his wallet.

His heart's thudding as David flashes him an anxious grin then gets to his feet. It's inevitable what's coming next. He drags it out anyway, misery bowing his shoulders as he pushes himself out of the seat. Suddenly he's enveloped in a hug.

"Now you'll know where to find me."

It lasts only seconds and then he's gone but he can still feel the imprint of his brother's hands gripping his shoulders. David studies him for a moment then grabs his rucksack, swinging it on his back.

"I'd better go. Got a flight to catch."

"Okay." The word is like sawdust in his mouth. As they both head for the door his fixing gene makes a last-ditch attempt to assert itself. "Do you need money? I can get –"

David waves him to silence, a small smile on his face. "It's covered. House," he explains at his frown of confusion. "He figured he owed you the money anyway. He says you still owe him for the coffee though."

Forcing himself not to follow his brother out into the corridor, he listens as his footsteps fade away. There's work he could be doing despite it being Saturday morning but he closes the door instead, locking himself inside his office. The pain is almost as the bad the second time, he notes vaguely, stretching out on the couch. It's taking every little bit of faith he has in his brother to convince himself that he'll stick to his promise and call.

There's a scratching noise at the door a while later. He's left the key in the lock on purpose and he turns his back to the door, an unsubtle hint to House who he knows is standing outside. It goes quiet for a while before the balcony door slides open. He rolls over, not bothering to hide an annoyed sigh.

"Don't. Just don't..." He understands everyone's reasoning but talking about it is beyond him right now.

"Wasn't going to." House sounds very subdued.

Closing his eyes, he rubs his face tiredly. When he opens them again House is standing beside him, offering a piece of paper in his hand.

"It's the direct line number for the Director of the mission," his friend supplies when he frowns. "Marco thought you might want it. In case of...emergencies."

House doesn't elaborate on what kind of emergencies. He doesn't need to. He's offering him a lifeline to David and for a second he's tempted to take it. His fingers settle on the piece of paper but then he jerks them back, shaking his head. "I'll be calling every other day."

House studies him for a moment then shrugs. The piece of paper disappears into his pocket, he notices, not straight into the trash. "You want to get breakfast?"

No, is his immediate answer. He wants to hide in here forever. That's not practical though so he gets to his feet. "Let me guess - I'm paying?"

"You got coffee, didn't you?"

House has already unlocked the door and is waiting for him on the threshold. Grabbing his jacket he follows. David's safe, he reminds himself, taking a swipe at the cloud of depression that's threatening to overwhelm him. It's what he's always wanted. He just has to convince himself it's enough.