AN: When I started out, this story was just a slightly OOC experiment in trying to figure out what Wilson was like when he finally relaxes and stops trying to be nice, and make everything perfect for someone he cared about—House—but the more I wrote, the worse he seemed to get. Also, I think that House would never have agreed to do the deep brain stimulation unless Wilson has more power over him than we see on the show. AU/ OOC A history of James and Greg's relationship, in which Wilson is an abusive bastard towards House, culminating in House risking his life to save Amber, and almost dying, just to lose the one person who was ever part way decent to him. I changed the timeline of things again, and think it's totally stereotypical. I'll probably take this down in a day or two.

"I wonder why I stick around; sometimes I wish you would leave.
You'll say you'll love me forever, then you spit on me.
Your time is going to come. I swear your time is going to come.
I don't want to be your whipping boy, your pathetic little loser,
someone you can ignore.
I'm not going to let you overwhelm me anymore," Art Alexakis.

My childhood was an absolute nightmare. I honestly can not express how horrible it was. My father did things to me that would make Stephen King shudder. Luckily, I managed to repress most of the truly terrible stuff, not that it made me feel any better. I have nightmares; I'm in pain all the time—even before the infarction—and I worry constantly, that somebody was going to do those thingsagain. I have panic attacks, although they are much less common now and flash backs. I started drinking my first week of college—okay technically "Dad" got me started on that one, by force-feeding me schnapps when I still had all my baby teeth—which didn't help, unless I got completely sloshed, which allowed me to turn off my brain to a certain degree, which allowed me to relax a little. Once again, I had a small amount of luck, this time because I have the amazing ability to learn/ do just about anything wile hung-over, without anybody ever noticing.

I survived. I managed. And I'd sleep only when I passed out from shear exhaustion. Amazingly, I thrived under these conditions, graduating at the top of my class, getting two medical degrees, and held down a job, and did all the grownup things I was supposed to do. Only, I couldn't deal with people, not that I cared. Still, the memories of what he had done to me continued to haunt my mind. No amount of booze, or pills, or ECT would ever change what had happened. Nothing could fix me. Nothing could make me forget.

I was (and still am) able to recall, with prefect accuracy, the first time he broke one of my arms. I knocked over a glass of milk, and it spilled all over my plate. He grabbed my hand, yanking and twisting it, snapping the bone all the way around. I also remembered how—when I was five-years-old—he started coming into my bedroom at night, and touching me and putting his…that's not really relevant to what happened between me and Wilson. Well, maybe it is, but I don't wanna think about it unless I have to. He did all kinds of other things, stuff I will never forget, including, but not limited to breaking my jaw when I was 8, cracking a couple ribs, breaking my right arm three times, and my left one six times, and beating the crap out of me for ever minor misbehavior, even when I was in high school—I still don't know how he did that one. No mater how strong I was, he was stronger.

I always told anyone who'd listen that I distance myself from people because I am much, much, much smarter than them, but honestly I think I', just afraid of…being abused again. Yeah, I know, pathetic. Jimmy wasn't like everyone else. From the moment I bailed him out of prison that first night, I just knew things were going to be different with him. And they were. For a while. The two of us hit it off instantly. He liked me. He was good to me. He got me. That was the first—and only—time anyone ever had. Wilson was smart, and funny, and kind. Our first night together, we hung out in his hotel room, sitting up together, until 3:00 AM, just talking. There were sparks between us, but Wilson was getting divorced, and I didn't want to risk turning what could have been a great relationship into a terrifying, one night stand. Wilson liked me. I wasn't going to lose that. So, I waited, and waited, and waited, all the while, gaining new memories.

I would never forget the first time I made an offhand comment about my dad being a pedophile. Jimmy knew instantly, and managed to get me to tell him about it, and he did exactly the right thing, or rather exactly the right thing for me. He hugged me, patting my shoulders, and said something like, "if you want, I can shoot he bastard in the testicles." Anybody else would have said, I'm so sorry, or maybe, it wasn't your fault, you know that right? Those are two of the most useless statements on the planet.

A few weeks later, we were sitting on the sofa in my apartment, laughing, and watching some crappy movie on TV, my hand brushed up against his. Wilson didn't pull away. In fact, he grabbed on, and left it there for the rest of the night. This happened a little less than a year after we met. I also remember our first kiss.

It was a month after the hand holding incident. Jimmy leaned in close, pressing his mouth up against mine, and possessively forced my lips open, slipping his tongue in just far enough to feel good, but not so far as to choke me. Wilson was a good kisser, albeit a bit rough, and he didn't seem nearly as freaked out by the prospect of entering a sexual relationship with another man as I'd expected. We made out for an hour and a half, even though I was starting to get extremely uncomfortable, and frustrated. I rubbed up against him, grinding my crotch into his hips, but then he jumped up, ran to the door, and said, "I gotta go." Then, he did. Three days went by before I saw him again, but when he did show up, Jimmy apologized, and he told me he'd just gotten worried that I was just doing what I thought he wanted, even though I might not have been into it.

"It's okay," I'd explained. "I've done this sort of thing before, with four other guys—separately of course—and I wanna do it again. I mean, I wanna do this with you," I explained, touching the side of his face. He smiled, taking me by the hand and sort of pushing me down to my knees. "Jimmy wait," I whispered.

"Shh," he responded, gently touching my hair, and my cheeks, and tracing my lips with his index fingers. "I know about your—history, and I will never do that to you. Whatever you want, we'll do it. And if you want me to stop, just say so, alright?" I nodded, licking my lips. "Say, stop," he insisted, touching my cheek. I nodded. "No, say it, out loud. I need to know that you can tell me no."

"Stop," I said, forcefully, pushing him, just a little, standing up, and taking a few steps away from him. He smiled, walked back up to me, pausing at my side. "Kiss me again." He did.

When we pulled apart he said, "You're gonna…you're gonna be okay, Greg. I promise. I will never, ever, ever hurt you."

"Everybody hurts everybody they care about, and sometimes the ones you don't care about, eventually." Jimmy sighed, absently playing with my hair. He walked me to the bedroom, and held me all night long. I thought aobut trying to get him to do more, but I started to realize that he was right. I wasn't ready, not really. Before then, every time I had been in a sexual relationship with another dude, I'd ended things with them shortly after we started sleeping together. Two days passed. He was so kind, so understanding, so sweet, and when I finally felt better, he asked if I was okay with "love making." I nodded, but once again he made me say so out loud. As annoying as it was, I liked that. I came as close to trusting him as anyone else I'd ever met. Wilson lifted me up onto my hands and knees, on the bed, pressed his body up against mine, his hands on my hands, his mouth on my neck and cheeks, and chin. I will never forget that night either. It wasn't my first time with another guy, and yet, it was the best sex I'd ever had. His cock fit perfectly inside of me, and he worked so hard to he made me feel good, and I came so hard I couldn't see straight for ten minutes. Afterwards, he tried to hold me again, and at first I fought him, but then he said, "come on, you liked this the other day, what's the difference now?"

"You mean besides the fact that I already got what I wanted from you," I taunted, heading to the kitchen for a beer.

"So you don't wanna be friends anymore," he asked, making this pouty face. I laughed. "Please, Greg," he whispered, and hugged me, close. "See, it feels good." I shrugged, looking down. "Tell me what to say, to make you realize that there's nothing wrong with this. You're allowed to relax once in a while." I'm still not sure how, but he managed to make me feel better, and it went on to happen all the time, not just with sex stuff. I was comfortable around him. He could make me laugh, and Jimmy was fun to be around, which made up for his being annoying and thinking he knew what was best.

I remember him bringing me to meet his parents, all proud and excited, like he was showing me off. It was kind of cute. Plus Wilson didn't expect me to be some weird, super serious boyfriend, partner, or whatever. We were just buddies who occasionally—often—slept together. He got married, twice, after the two of us got together, and I had Stacy, for a while. Then, she left and I was…a mess, but he came over, even though Bonnie was pissed, wrapped his arms around me, and laid down on the sofa next to me, for hours and hours, trying to comfort me, rocking with me, which was more annoying than helpful, and saying, "I love you." He and the 2nd Mrs. Wilson called it quits, shortly after that, and the two of us hung out at my place, "taking care of" each other for almost a year. He got remarried, they got divorced, and we fell into our routine again. That's when he moved in with me. Only this time Jimmy wanted to get more serious. I felt like a wuss, and an idiot, but this idea scared me a little, and not because I didn't like—possibly even love—the guy. He had there failed marriages, and almost twice as many serious ex-girlfriends. It could be because he was sleeping with you most of that time, I thought, momentarily, but still wondered about the relationships he'd had before we met. Once again I was weak, and pathetic, and stupid. So I called one of his ex's. Okay, technically I called all three. The psycho chick was the only one who would take my phone calls and, I set up a meeting.

"Can I ask you something about Jimmy," I said, less than a minute after we got together the door Bonnie said yes. "What's he like in the—uh—romance department." Her eyes almost popped out of her head, and she jumped five feet up in the air.

"Why would you want to know that, she asked, gently taking my hand in hers, "Don't—listen, House, I know he's your best friend, but you need to be careful with James. He—he's a dangerous man. He was controlling, manipulative, possessive, and violent." I laughed.

"You are talking about the same Jimmy, right? James Evan Wilson, your ex-husband?" I couldn't stop laughing. She nodded, looking like she was about to cry. "Oh boy. What now?"

"It started with him wanting to know where I was going—always—how long I planned to be out, who was going with me, everything. Then, I could only do things if he said it was alright ahead of time. Soon he was getting angry over every little thing. And…he hit me. A lot. James always apologized afterwards, and he meant it, but that didn't make him any less dangerous. You have to stay away from him," Psycho Chick ordered.

"Jimmy's a pussycat. He's harmless, and even if he wasn't I could—I think I can handle Wilson." Unfortunately, she was right. James Wilson is way, way, way, colder and crueler than I ever could have imagined. Two days after the warning, he stormed into my office, and yelled at me. He had this conspiracy theory about me sleeping with the ex-Mrs. Wilson, and he started picking the toys and stuff up off of my desk, throwing them down onto the floor and against the wall, even breaking one of them.

"What are you doing with my ex-wife," he seethed, staring me down with a ferocious anger, the likes of with I hadn't seen since I was a kid. My father rarely reacted out of frustration. He was calm, calculating, even when he threw me across his lap and wailed on me with the buckle end of his belt. But Wilson seemed to have lost it, and in that moment, I was in fear for my life. I didn't know what to do or say, so I just stood there, staring at him. That's when Jimmy smacked me, right across the face. I was shocked, and horrified, still staring. I knew it would happen again, no matter what he said, no matter what I did. I had to make it stop. I had to leave, but Jimmy was—as Bonnie had said—my best friend, and the only person who had ever been there for me. Ever.

"I wanted to get you something special for your birthday," I explained, grateful that the event was two weeks away. "I tried calling Julie too, but she wouldn't talk to me. I figured someone who—I suck at this stuff. I thought she'd have some idea." My hands were shaking so badly, I dropped my cane, and while I was hurting pretty badly, I was afraid to reach into my pocket for my pills. "It was really stupid of me to go behind your back like that. I'm sorry. Just wanted to give you a nice surprise."

"Really?" Jimmy rubbed his mouth. I nodded, gulping, and for the first time since I was six-years-old, I prayed. He has to buy it, 'cuz technically it's true. Only learned the other stuff because Bonnie has a big mouth. Please. Don't let him hit me again. "I'm an idiot," he murmured, with a small smile. "Sorry about that." He touched my cheek softly. "I didn't hurtyou, did I?" Wilson picked up my cane, and placed it back in my palm, and then kissed my face where he'd hit me. I shook my head, took several deep breaths, and attempted to control my trembling body. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. I knew an abuser when I saw one—and had successfully saved dozens of kids that nobody else would have been able to help because of it—and was silently screaming at myself for not recognizing James Wilson for what he really was. "Why don't you go lay down in my office, and I'll run downstairs and grab you something a little stronger for your leg, okay?" I was terrified of him. I wanted to say no, wanted to tell him to go away and never come back, wanted to run away, hide, swallow a fist full of Vicodin, quit my job, move away, and never, ever, ever have anything to do with him again. "Hey, I'm sorry. I lost control. I freaked out, but it won't happen again. I know, Greg. I know what you're thinking. I'm an abusive asshole and I'm gonna keep hitting you, until you end up dead." He tried to touch me again, but when I flinched, he put his hand down, without moving away.

"That's generally how it works," I whispered, too scared to step back, but also terrified of what would happen if I stayed there. He smiled, and tried to rub my back.

"Alright, you wanna know the truth?" He asked, and I nodded, in shock. "Let me—here, put your head on my shoulder." I sucked my lip into my mouth, and thought for a moment. "I'm not a monster. I have hit—people, before. I slapped Bonnie once. She only got our dog Hector because she threatened to tell the world I was a violent asshole. I had a problem in college. I knocked around this one girl for two years, never really hitting her all that hard. Then, one day…I accidentally broke her arm. We went to the emergency room together, but she was so afraid of me. Every…every time I tried to touch her, she'd freak out, jump—literally—and I knew I'd screwed up, big time. So, I started seeing this therapist. We talked. My parents had these ridiculously high standards, and I started imposing them on myself too. I couldn't control anything in my world, and I dealt with it by stuffing all my feelings deep down inside of me, until they exploded out and I hit somebody. But the guy helped me learn how to control my anger, and I did real good, for years, and years. Bonnie and I were this close to a divorce, but I—I still think it could of worked out if I hadn't lost my temper, and—I'm so sorry. I'm trying, but I'll work harder. I will never, hurt you again, but uh—you probably don't believe me. Can't say I blame you for that one."

"When you say stronger pain meds, what exactly do you—I mean, uh, sorry." Why are you apologizing to him, my mind was screaming. RUN! "I know you hate it when I do that. Sorry. Won't ever do—I'm sorry." I must have still been shaking because he finally stepped away. His story sounded rational, plausible, even realistic, but I didn't believe it. Bonnie called him dangerous, and his explanation was so typical. Abusive people always say they have under control. Hell, I say I have the Vicodin thing under control, I thought. No, PC is a head case. She's jealous and probably trying to ruin our good thing. "I'm gonna get you some Percocet, okay?" I looked way, biting my lip a little. "You're in pain, and I have to—an apology from someone who just hit you doesn't mean much. I always got Karen—my college girlfriend—flowers, but you wouldn't really like that, right? I just figured that pain meds are just as easy to get for you, since I'm a doctor, and they would actually make you feel better."

"How about 7.5 Vicodins instead," I suggested. I would have loved something a lot stronger, but didn't wanna let Wilson off that easy. He nodded, and offered to take me home early, but I had a case, and my team came in with some sort of emergency. After he hit me that first time, things went back to how they had been for a while. Then, one day, I was doing the dishes and accidentally dropped one, breaking it. Jimmy hit me again, this time more carefully, on the shoulder. After that time in my office, he never touched me anywhere that wasn't covered by clothes, so no one would notice when I got bruises. He apologized, gave me some extra pills, said he loved me, and made up for it, eventually. I don't pretend to remember every time he hit me, or all the times he apologized, or even all of…the other stuff.

But there is one night that I do remember quite well. He got home late. I was already in bed. Jimmy climbed in beside me, and rubbed my shoulders. "I thought you were gonna sleep on the sofa," I managed to come up with. He had beaten the crap out of me a couple of days before. He said it was 'cuz he caught me riding the bike without a helmet, but I had a feeling that it was because he was losing a three-year-old to leukemia.

"I thought maybe I could change your mind," he explained pressing his body up against mine. Wilson already had an erection. I knew what was about to happen. I knew I was powerless to stop it. So, even though I didn't wanna, even though I could have tried to fight back, said no, begged him to stop, made him stop—or so I keep telling myself—I just lay still, and pretended that we were having fun. Another broken promise. Why are you still with him, you moron? When he rolled off of me, I pressed my face into my pillow, and cried myself to sleep. Pathetic, I thought, but at least he never found out.

During the whole Tritter fiasco, things got so bad that Cameron actually noticed. I was moving slow, in two or three times more pain than I should have been, even detoxing, and I didn't do so good when she tried to pat me on the hand to show support. She tried to be sweet and offer some help, but I made a really crude sex joke, and she watched me for a minute, before leaving. Eventually Tritter left me alone, Wilson forgave me, and I told him that it was okay. I probably would have been pissed at you if you were stupid enough to do what I did, I told him. "Greg, come here," he ordered, massaging my shoulders, and hugging me close. "I think you wanted to see what I'd let you get away with before I gave up on you, right?" I nodded, even though it wasn't even close to the truth. "Are we okay? I messed up pretty bad too. If I was you, I'd never forgive me."

"It's fine," I'd lied. "Let's just not talk about it anymore, okay?" We moved on. We got over it. Things were good again. I was his one and only, and he was my…I dunno, something.

Then, a couple months ago, he started dating Cutthroat Bitch. He was happy, and calm, that was par for a new relationship with him. I pretty much—I would have been fine to let it go, a few nights ago. She called me.

"House, we need to talk," Amber explained, almost sweetly. Still, I was scared, and I don't really know why. I let out a soft, grunt, and she probably took it as an acknowledgment of her presence or whatever. "It's about James. He screamed at me last night. I don't know. I'm probably making a big deal out of nothing." I bit my lip, literally. I can't tell her. She'll go straight to Wilson, and ask if I was lying to break them up. Stupid bitch! "Should I be worried?"

"About Jimmy," I chuckled, trying to pretend like I had no idea what she meant. Of course CTB wouldn't let it go. I hung up. She tried calling back five times before giving up for the night. The next day, she tried again. The day after that, I finally picked up. "What the Hell do you want fro me," I probably shouted.

"I'm afraid of him, and I don't know why. Tell me I'm being irrational. Tell me there's nothing to worry about," she begged. I didn't say a word. "I know about the two of you, I know you have sex, and I don't care. Or I won't, as long as you tell me the truth." I ran a hand through my hair and said something like, 'don't be stupid, James Wilson is a teddy bear,' and convinced myself that she wouldn't do anything. That was Wednesday. Jimmy came over to my apartment that night, but we didn't go out. As terrified as I had been, he was so relaxed, and "nice" that I calmed down too, and had a good time, or as a good a time as I'm capable of.

XX

I honestly don't remember what I was doing last night, why I was going out, why I was with Amber, or any of the things Jimmy wants to know. He was so supportive when I came in after getting conked on the head. He sat with me, in my hospital bed, kissed my hair, promised that everything would be alright, gave me extra strong painkillers, listened to my crazy theory about a sick person on the bus, helped me figure it out. He was great, until we found CTB. I tried to remember what I had done, I've been trying so hard, but I can't. After we talked to the bartender, he and I went back to my office, where he locked the door and de the blinds.

"What were you doing with my girlfriend," he asked through clenched teeth. Every bit of concern, every speck of sympathy and love disappeared from Wilson's voice. He wasn't furious, hadn't quite reached the screaming and throwing things stage. I don't know what I did, what to tell him. I never would have slept with Cutthroat Bitch, regardless of their relationship. And I wouldn't of warned her. I'd decided to be good so he'd yell, and scream and hit her, and then I'd be safe. If I wasn't trying to fuck the woman, and I wasn't outing James, why were we together?

"I don't know," I croaked, nervously, looking towards the door, trying to calculate my odds. Less than a 10% possibility of pushing past him, less than 5% of getting the door open on my own. 3% chance of getting outside, and maybe 1% that I'd find someone in the hall who'd protect me. Those odds were even worse than after my infarction. No, I thought, best to stay here, take it like a man. The funny thing is he didn't scream. He drew his and back to hit me, but there was a knock on the door—13, I have to remember to give her a raise…ha—and we were interrupted.

That was several hours ago. Now he's back, too depressed to be angry, and he wants me to do the deep brain stimulation. He keeps begging me. He hasn't cried yet, but he's close. I haven't said yes or no. The thing is…I was all set to do it, without or without help, right up until he stormed in and started to tell me I had to. I knew the risks then, but I'm really thinking about them now. I could die, or end up a vegetable, and maybe still not find the answer. Technically, Jimmy's still asking. He knows that if he tells me to do it, even without threatening to leave, or hurt me, I'll do it because he told me. Wilson knows how much power he has over me, knows I haven't go anybody else, knows that I'd do anything to hold onto him, even if he does hit me and sort of—I don't really know what to call the other thing. It's not rape, but it's not sex either. But…still, I need him. He's way better to me than anybody else has ever been, which if you think about it, is really, really messed up.

"You want me to risk my life…for Amber," I ask, looking up at him all pathetic, and sad, and scared, and helpless, as if any of those things will help, as if he actually gives a crap about me. He doesn't even have to think about it.

"Yeah," he says, barely touching his mouth at all. Please, I begged, with my eyes—I know not to say it—please don't do this to me. "Do it." I nod, and Wilson helps me stand, drags me upstairs, to a room where he hooks me up to the machine, takes my hand in his and…

XX

The next thing I know, I'm somewhere else, my head hurts way worse than before. Cuddy's right there, touching my hand, and my hair, telling me what happened. She says I'm going to be all right, but I don't care. I open my mouth to ask about Wilson, but she presses her finger over my lips.

"Don't talk. Blink if you understand me." I do what she says. Cuddy tells me what happened, that I solved the case, but it didn't matter, and she tries to make me feel better, but all I can think about is Wilson. "I'm going to say here with you, okay?" I sort of shrug. She sighs, smiled, and kisses me on the forehead. "I have to ask you something. You've got bruises everywhere, is there—do you wanna tell me something?" I blink no, max out my morphine pump, curl up on my side, and pretend to be asleep so she'll go away. Only, Lisa doesn't leave. And I'm sort of glad.

Sometime later, Jimmy shows up. He stands in the doorway, watching for a second. Then, he looks at me like this is all my fault, like he hates me. I knew it would happen, but…still. I wanna say, after everything you've done to me, is it really fair to get mad over one night of drinking that ended in horrendous tragedy? I actually want him to hit me, or fuck me, or scream, or something, just to show that he isn't going to disappear forever. I want to say I'm sorry, and beg him to stay, but he just turns and walks away before I get the chance.

As I lie still, my heart feels like it's breaking in half from the pain, as I long for a guy who beats the crap out of me, and I wonder how I'm ever going to survive without him. God you're pathetic, my mind teases. Why not just drink from the fountain of youth, turn into a permanent five-year-old, and move in with Daddy again.

"It should have been me," I whisper in the darkness, tears rolling down my cheeks, as I struggle to hold myself together. I can hear Wilson's voice in the back of my mind, taunting me.

"Yeah,"he says, calm but pissed. "It should of." Maybe it still can be, I think. That would show him! Of course I haven't got the courage to actually kill myself, but maybe in a couple of weeks Jimmy will cool down, and I'll be able to get him to come back. If I'm lucky. And maybe Tinkerbell can sprinkle fairy dust on your leg so that it won't hurt anymore, and Wilson won't hit you ever again.

"Shut up," I whisper in the darkness, looking back over at Cuddy to make sure she's still asleep. Then, I let myself cry or real, not just the silent, baby tears, but real, noisy crying, that doesn't do anything except make my head and heart hurt worse. Oh well, at least the worst is over, I tell myself, and wonder how many times I've had that thought.