AN: I changed the point of view because the third person thing was driving me batty, plus at this point Wilson sort of comes in and takes over. If you don't like it feel free to complain but I won't change it back.

"But say a prayer,
pray for the other ones
At Christmastime it's hard,
but when you're having fun
There's a world outside your window,
and it's a world of dread and fear
Where the only water flowing
is the bitter sting of tears
And the Christmas bells that ring there
are the clanging chimes of doom
Well tonight thank God it's them
instead of you."

Christmas Eve

"Well," I asked, after what felt like hours had passed. He didn't move. If I didn't now that he was practically comatose from the double dose of pills, I'd be worried House had had a heart attack and was lying there dead. "We gonna go or what?"

"I'd rather stay here and blow my brains out," he explained. I moved to the armrest. I put my hand on his forehead. He felt slightly feverish, but I kept my mouth shut about it.

"I know, Pal. When this is all over and he's in prison, would you settle for a combo of Ativan and Morphine?" He shrugged a small, nervous movement. He was basically saying I wanna say yes but I can't. "I'll give it to you."

"Why," he managed to ask. The real question, however, was why in the world would you ever do anything to help me after all I've done? I smiled gently and gave him my hand to squeeze. He couldn't touch it.

"Because I love you; I always have. I'm gonna miss you like crazy, but…I have the power to take away your pain, and since you're gonna off yourself anyway, I might as well see to it that things don't hurt too much, make sure you do it right. I don't have power of attorney, so if you make a mistake, you could end up a vegetable and I'll be powerless to help you. But we have to talk. Not until you're ready, of course. Just…I need to know that this isn't a permanent solution to a temporary problem."

He sighed, looking way, and while Greg didn't reach to push my hand away, I could tell he really wanted to. "Tell me what to do?" He didn't respond, again. I thought about telling him he had an obligation to report this, especially since he had been smart enough to go and get a rape kit, which meant that he had physical proof of what had been done to him. I thought about explaining how this wasn't his fault, no one had the right to hurt him. I thought about letting him go; after everything else that had been done to the poor guy, was it fair of me to expect him to testify against a violent, rapist? I thought about hitting him over the head and dragging his unconscious body back to the hospital against his will. I thought bout t least a million things, but realized that almost all of them involved me forcing him to do something he clearly wasn't ready for. You don't have to answer yet. We've got time. This is your decision."

House, who had been half asleep with his eyes squeezed shut, opened them and looked up at me. Finally, he nodded, silently, his lips pulled tight, eyes fixed upwards in that pitiful expression—the one he used whenever someone yelled at him—made me think he'd made a decision.

"I made my decision," he told me, trying to sound braver than he actually felt. I nodded, slowly lowering my hand to once again stroke his hair. He didn't fight, but I knew he didn't want to be touched, and let go. "I hafta go the hospital," Greg asked, rather than informing me. He had agreed to go originally, so I'd give him the pills, but at this point he wasn't ready to decide what socks he wanted to wear, let alone something this huge.

"No, you don't," I swore, wanting more than anything to touch or hold or kiss him, but knowing full well that he couldn't handle that. So, I sat there, just close enough so he wouldn't feel alone, but not close enough to smother the guy. "No matter what you decide, I will support you and protect you from Tritter in every way, shape or form. You don't have to go to the hospital. You don't have to talk to the cops. You don't even have to keep going, to keep living, if that is what you decide to do, if it's what you want." He opened his eyes again, staring into my face. In that moment I was positive that hecould read my mind.

"I—" he whimpered, biting down on his lip. Wait until you're ready, I thought. "I'm not ready to let go, even if I am just living to get revenge." I looked confused, apparently, because he told me more. "I wanna see him get screwed over worse than he screwed me, and all the others. I know there were others. He didn't say it, but he had that routine down pact. First tie sexual predators are clumsy and stupid. My father tried to tell me that the human lie detector wouldn't believe me if I told her what he was doing. The way he turned you against me, the way he took a blow torch to everything in my life, even the sheer balls it took to arrest a man and then drive him to a motel and rape him…" Greg shook his head, and groped blindly for my hand. I gave it, and he squeezed with all his might—which wasn't much at all. "Just wish I knew if I was number 12 or 112." I nodded, but kept my mouth shut. I caught myself checking my watch; so did he. "How long before my execution," he said mockingly. I sighed, but did some quick calculations and told him. "Think I can get a pardon from the governor?" I wasn't sure, but didn't say so.

"I'll petition him myself," I replied, tears burning behind my eyes. He could see how upset and worried I was, which made him freak out even more. "I'm calling the police and taking back my statement."

"If you do, we'll both go to jail," he said, yawning. He was right, but at least if we shared a cell, I could protect him from all the bad guys. I knew he wouldn't survive prison without a barrel full of Vicodin, a bodyguard, and a gun. I might be able to be the second.

"You want the a shot morphine," I offered, 78% certain he'd say no, I don't want it, but hoping I could give him some relief.

"He can't take me out of the hospital if I'm not fit to stand trial, right," he asked, even though neither one of us knew the answer. I held my arms up, shrugging my shoulders. "You'll make sure I get my pills?"

"If I have to smuggle them to you in my asshole," I swore. "In a little plastic baggie, of course," I added quickly. House cracked the world's tinniest smile, reaching for my other hand, and pulling it to his head. I began to stroke his hair.

"Are you any closer to making a decision," I asked, trying to keep myself form crying. House was almost gone. Regardless of what I did, what we did, he'd be dead within a year. If he went to prison and Tritter had unlimited access to the guy, he'd have a heart attack. If I forced him to go to rehab and Tritter had unlimited access to the guy, he'd kill himself. Even if I undid all the mistakes I'd made, saved him, and made everything okay, he'd either blow his brains out or beg me to do it for him.

"How angry would you be if I said no?" I smiled, and kissed his forehead. He grabbed my hand back, pulling it around his body. I lay there with him, letting the guy relax. "I don't really have a choice, do I? I mean, you're trying to give me choices but the fact remains that since I'm not ready to die, I can chose to go to the hospital and be safe, or we can just sit here, do nothing, and I'll go to jail where Tritter will be able to see me whenever he wanted. He will come and 'visit' and he will keep hurting me over and over And I'm gonna keep getting smaller and smaller and smaller until I disappear, forever," he whimpered, again. I wanted to grab a gun and shoot Tritter a couple dozen times, then set the bastard on fire, kill him, bring him back to life and kill him a hundred times.

"I want to stay here and let go, within the hour, but I don't think I'll—I mean, I'll feel horrible if I don't fight. Never fought back when I was a kid. I tried last time, when he was…I fought like Hell but Tritter's so much bigger and stronger than me, even without my 'limitations.'" He started to rub his thigh, head tilted back, free hand stuffed into the pocket of his sweatshirt. I tried to think of some comforting thing to say, but knew that platitudes would mean nothing, not to him. Same with telling him that anything (least of all everything) was or would be okay. He might believe me if I told him that we could make his emotional pain go away eventually, but if I was wrong, it wouldn't be good. If I was wrong, he'd never trust me again. Assuming he could trust me at the time. "I wanna keep fighting but I feel like I don't have any strength left."

"You can have my strength." He nodded, pressing his face into my shirt. He was hurting, scared—almost as bad, if not worse, than he had as a child—and then, to top it all of, he was fighting a losing battle against a monster who could crush him with one finger.

XX

An hour later, House finally agreed to let me take him to the hospital. I walked him to the front desk, rubbed his shoulders, letting him squeeze my hand with all his might, to keep from crying. I smiled. I touched his arm, and shoulder, and hair all the while filling out forms, and watching the stares from the nurse at the admitting desk.

"What the Hell are you glaring at," I snapped at her, which—of course—made the poor guy next to me jump out of his skin. "If he were any other patient, would you be giving him that dirty look? Yeah, that's what I though," I continued to mock the stupid cow. "Be grateful if we don't sue you. Now, if you don't mind, I'm taking my patient upstairs." Greg squeezed my hand even more tightly as he was checked into a private room, and as he got set up in the tiny little bed, filling out even more forms wile we waited for the shrink to come and do his intake interview.

That part actually wasn't too bad. I explained that he had been attacked and now seemed traumatized, unable to speak, or make eye contact. He behaved approximately the way he felt, and didn't say one single inappropriate thing the whole time. The doctor was a bit of an idiot, asking him the same questions multiple times as if he expected the answers to change. Finally the man left him and me alone, at which point House curled up on his side and confessed that he hadn't slept for days. I had the shrink give him a tranquilizer, and sat at his side, stroking his hair while he slept uneasily.

XXX

Once he had been out for a few hours, I picked up the phone and dialed the police station, Tritter's extension.

"Hello," he said in that terrifying, evil, disgusting voice that made me want to reach through the phone and strangle him. "Hello?"

"I know what you did," I said, my voice shaking. He laughed. He actually fucking laughed. Terrified that House might be able to hear him, I placed my free hand over his ear, softly. "I'm not gonna let you get away with this. Even if it means going to prison myself."

"I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about," Tritter lied.

"You raped him," I sobbed. He repeated his statement. "House had a rape kit done the night you attacked him. He had handprint bruises on his hips, a broken scapula, and your semen inside of him. I'm hanging up and calling the real police now, and I'm telling them that I lied about the scripts."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he told me, trying to sound rational, and kind. House shifted in his sleep, making a soft moaning sound. "House isn't strong enough to stand an investigation. He'll just give up. His pathetic, little heart just won't make it," the cop explained. "And since my 6th amendment rights mean that if I can't confront the person accusing me of any crime, I'll get set free and he'll have died in vain."

"He's stronger than you think. They all were. I know there were others. I know it, he knows it; you know it. Once you're arrested, they're gonna come forward. You'll have so many accusers; you'll be begging them to put you in jail. Otherwise someone's mom or dad or best friend might decide that the justice system couldn't possibly hurt you enough," I said, and hung up before my strength faded and I started crying. I scooted closer to House, wrapping my arms around him, and kissing his hair. He seemed so sad and helpless. All I wanted was to make his pain go away. "Okay," I said, and sighed to myself. "One down, one to go." I dialed again, and this time a softer, kinder voice answered.

"Princeton Police Department," it said. "My name is Cheryl, how can I help you today?" You can let me get away with killing the bastard who practically murdered the only person I give a crap about.

"I would like to report a rape," I said, and was transferred to another department. They asked me dozens of questions. Luckily, I knew all the answers. They also kept asking to talk to House, but I told them he had required sedation. Unfortunately, they still needed to speak with him, and would be coming by later, but eventually I was allowed to hang up which was especially good because Greg was starting to come back around. That night, we stayed in his room, watching TV, but not saying much of anything to each other. "You're gonna be alright," I promised. "I talked to the police. They're dropping all the charges against you, but they still need to come in and talk. You hafta make a formal statement. Everything I said was just hearsay, so…but it's not gonna happen tonight, and Tritter is never gonna be allowed to hurt you ever again." I couldn't help but notice how strongly he recoiled when I said the cop's name. "Sorry," I whispered, kissing the top of his head, but he just lay there, staring vacantly at the screen. "You just save your strength for tomorrow okay?" He grunted, and closed his eyes. "Just tell me to go to Hell, or that nothing is ever going to be alright again so I know you're not…gone," I begged. Greg didn't move for what seemed like the longest time. Shit, I thought, should have just let him go.

"I wish I was dead," he said, grumpily. I nodded, and kissed his hair again and again, wondering if he would ever be able to look at me and not hate my guts. I was basically the only person who had ever cared about him, and I'd handed the poor guy over to a psychopath, for a car, a couple thousand dollars and my stupid job. House slept on and off all night for no more than an hour at a time—usually more like ten minutes—but he looked a tiny bit better in the morning than he had the previous afternoon. Although, I wondered if he looked better because he'd gotten something horrific and painful off of his chest or because he was on steady dose of painkillers again, no longer detoxing, no longer dying. I wanted to ask him, but I knew he'd never answer. He had nightmares all night, and he cried in his sleep, and when they brought in the tray with his breakfast, he sat up, smiled weakly, and managed to eat and keep most of it down.

XXXX

The police were supposed to arrive around noon, but at 5:00 I was starting to think they had tossed my report in the trash. That's when the telephone went off. I picked up on the third ring, shooing a nurse out with my other hand. He shook me, not very rough, nervously but I was too busy listening to the voice on the other end to be able to respond. So, instead, I pulled his body closer to mine and rubbed his back. A female cop with a strong New York accent informed me that they were sorry for not making our appointment—her word, not mine—but explained that she and her partner had been extremely busy all day.

"This morning, Detective Tritter entered the precinct and confessed to the kidnapping and rape of more than three dozen people, most of whom he arrested shortly after their assaults. He gave us names, dates and locations, and we've been tracking down the other victims since then." I pictured the woman as a leggy blonde with nice breasts, and imagined her twirling the phone cord between her fingers even though very phones didn't have cords anymore. "We aren't going to need to take Mr. House's statement any longer," she explained, and I sighed relieved, realizing that I had been holding my breath ever since I'd picked up the phone.

"Thank you," I cried, and listened to her say a few more things, none of which I actually understood, before we hung up the phone. Greg, who still had no idea what was going on, looked up at me nervously. "Well, it looks like you finally caught a break. He confessed. They think that one of his victims died as a result of—what he did, which is a—something that can get him the death penalty. He knows that, and he—I guess my call really put the fear of God into him."

"There is no God," House informed me, tiredly. "And I wanna go home now." I sighed, patting him on the shoulder. It was true, we'd only gone to the hospital to keep Tritter from throwing him in jail, but he needed to be in a place like this. He needed therapy and meds and other stuff that I couldn't provide. He needed to stay, but he wanted to leave, and he wasn't used to not getting what he wanted. Greg was strong, but after all he'd been through the last couple of months, he was days away from…what Tritter said. I pressed my hand to thigh, massaging softly. "Please Jimmy? It's Christmas. This can be my present, for Christmas and Hanukah, and my birthday for every year from now until I die. Please?"

"Come here," I pleaded, and he did. "Let's compromise?" He had already stopped listening. Great, I thought, as the two of us started to rock back and forth slowly. "You stay here tonight—it's too late to check out anyway—and I get them to agree to release you into my care tomorrow afternoon. Then, we go downstairs to Cuddy's office, and we tell her that you need at least three months off. I'm gonna move in and take care of you, hold you, make you feel better, talk to you, listen to everything you have to say, feed you, and you're gonna to take more than enough Vicodin to make up for the fact that you've been deprived for months. How's that sound?" He shrugged, and hooked his thumb over his lower lip. "You wanna try and get some more sleep?" Another non-response. "Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?"

"Yeah, combo of Morphine and Ativan, a lot of it; enough to make it stop hurting. You know, forever," he said, somewhat sad and serious, but mostly just testing me to see what I would say, see if I'd agree to it for him.

"I already told you I would do that," I reminded the guy, but knew that he'd never let this be enough. He wanted to hear it again. "Okay, sure thing, Buddy. If you tell me you wanna—okay," I sobbed, burying my face in his shoulder. A minute went by, two, three, five, ten, and after fifteen, he realized that I was really bad off.

"I don't wanna die," he swore. "I hafta out live two bastards now. I gotta beat my dad and the cop." I didn't understand, House saw it again. "I feel like if I can stay alive longer than them, then I can maybe feel something…maybe I can get stronger or better, or—I can't really explain it," he told me, cutting himself off. "But it doesn't matter. The point is, as long as I've got my pills and you, and—my job. Even if they all hate me now—I had to beg Foreman and Cameron for pills, which they wouldn't give me. Then I…screwed up the last case and hit Chase, and he—we…I," he whimpered; an actual goddamn whimper this time, not a half, little, fake one the last time. Then, he picked up the TV remote and threw it across the room with all of his might. "He knew before you did."

"You told Chase," I asked more amazed than concerned or angry, and (I hated to admit) a tiny, little bit jealous. Greg looked away, and even tried pretending to be asleep again. He sighed, he shook his head, and he told me h couldn't say anything. "It's just me," I added, smiling. "I just—it's a…well, you had such a difficult time telling me I can't imagine you telling anybody else."

"I didn't tell him anything. Chase guessed it and then he confessed that the same thing had happened to him when he was a little kid. He also gave me a couple Benzos last week when I was detoxing real bad and going through—whatever, from being attacked. He even offered to write prescriptions for me when I got out of jail." I smiled. "Ass-kisser through and through, huh?"

"Yeah, sure that's what it was. He couldn't possibly do anything nice for you," I snarked. He snickered a little. "I think he loves you. I think he told you what he went through because of how bad—because of what happened—because he wants to be with you. He knew you were furious with me and thought that if he gave you everything he ever asked for, you might actually like him. He was lobbying for the spot closest to your heart," I explained.

"Yeah well I blew that chance when I slugged the poor kid," he whined, thinking. That was around the time when the news I had given him really sank in. "Tritter just gave up?" I sighed, and nodded, knowing that I was in for a long night, filled with a lot of his complicated, backwards logic. "Why would he confess like that?"

"House, it's over. You're safe; that's all that matters," I swore, kissing his head gently again. "What difference does it make why he did it? He confessed. He can't take that back." I could see the look on Greg's face. He was thinking things through, figuring it out, trying to come up with a response that I wouldn't be able to shoot down so easily.

"You don't know people like him, Jimmy. You just don't understand. Guys like Tritter, they just don't give in. Ever. I heard what you said to him—I just pretended to be asleep—none of it was a big threat. I mean, look at the situation. He's a decorated cop. I'm a lying, drug-addict doctor who forged prescriptions."

"Allegedly," I mocked, gently.

"You'd ratted me out. I was—am—totally screwed. He had nothing to be afraid of from me. Until yesterday even you didn't believe me. Why would anyone else? They'd just say I was lying because my ego's too big to admit that I have a problem or 'cuz I'm afraid of going to jail." It's even worse than I thought, I heard my brain saying. House wasn't just going into the rationality of Tritter's confession—which, I was willing to admit was oddly timed—but about how he didn't deserve to be believed or protected.

"The cops I talked to seemed very understanding. They even agreed to drop all charges against you regardless of whether Tritter was convicted," I explained, but he didn't seem to be listening. "Okay, how about this? Maybe there are more victims, ones he isn't willing to admit to, ones who are more sympathetic than you, ones who—I dunno. Maybe he grew a soul, maybe he thinks that he can get protection in jail by admitting to all his wrong doings."

"But you just don't get it! People like him don't think like you and me. They aren't normal. They aren't human! He's not logical, and he sure as Hell isn't afraid of me. That man is up to something. It's a trick. It's a trap. I'm, he's trying to do something to me, trip me up some how. Just gotta figure out what he's doing and how to combat it." I wrapped my arms around his body, pulled him in tightly, and kissed his hair yet again. "You don't understand," he sobbed, pressing his face deep into my shirt. Sure I do, I thought. He did unimaginably horrific things to you, and you lost all control. Now, they're telling you that it's over, on his terms. You're still not in control.

"Let's make a deal okay," I promised. He looked up at me for half a second, to show that he was listening but not. "I'm gonna get your new prescriptions filled right now, and you get to hold on o them, decide how much to take and when. Give you some control, hmm?"

"I don't want control. I want answers," he said, but his voice was quaking a bit. Then, he seemed to fully comprehend what I had offered. "Would you really give me my pills," he asked, trying his best not to sound too excited. I nodded, and stood up to get them. "Don't go yet." I sat back down. "It's like he's knocking over his king after trapping me in a Devil's Crossroads," Greg murmured and, as usual, I had no idea what he meant. "It's a chess move, and if you use it correctly you're basically grunted the win." I was still slightly confused. "Do you know anything about chess at all?" I shook my head. "You knock over your king to forfeit the game. You still lose but it's less disgraceful and you save time."

"But you weren't trapped. Not completely. You had—have— me on your side. We called the cops and they believed me, and you and you were here, someplace nobody could touch you. You guys were maybe having at an impasse; nobody could walk away from this a winner, but that's not the same thing." Greg rolled his eyes and pulled the blanket up around his neck and shoulders. I left, went to the pharmacy for his pills, and brought them back to him, but he barely noticed. "Would it make you feel better if I called the police back and asked them to talk to you?" He shook his head. "You wanna talk to me?" Nope. "Think you can talk to anybody right now? Okay, that's fine, don't worry about it. Um—do you want me to shut up and leave you, well not alone because I'll still be here but if you want I'll just shut up and sit next to you while you process all of this?" This time he nodded, quietly, and went back to staring up at the ceiling and moving his mouth a little. I thought he was trying to calm himself down by focusing on something simple, and while I wanted to know what this was so I could help, I knew him well enough to know he'd never tell me. "Can I apologize again, for the whole—for ratting you out to Tri—to that bastard?"

"Jimmy shut up," he said, scrunching up his nose. "You said you were gonna be quiet, but you can't even do that for me." He looked at me for a minute, and then shook his head. "You actually feel bad about that. You didn't know—although not for lack of trying on my part—you thought I was out of control, probably thought it was 'cuz of the pills and as stupid as that was, you just wanted to help me. I get that, and I forgive you for almost letting me get hurt real bad. Hell, I forgave you the second you gave me those pills in my apartment." I've always hate it when he says stuff like that. It made me wonder just how valuable a human being he considered himself to be, and caused me to believe that he only acted all cocky and arrogant to cover up for severe insecurities. "Oh boy, here we go again," he said, rolling his eyes. "You were trying to help me but you just went about it in the worst way possible. Next time you wanna help me, toss the TV set in my bath." I squeezed his hand, roughly. "Okay, clearly that was in bad taste, I that's my fault I really have no idea where the line is."

"Yeah you do," I reminded the poor guy, kissing my face, and holding him close, and all the other stuff he liked. "And you need to shave so you don't look like crap anymore. See, same line."

"No that's right on the line. Over the line would have been saying I look like death, or comparing me to—I dunno. I'm having a little bit of trouble concentrating." That wasn't surprising, after all, the guy was on a ton of meds, and he had gotten used to (as much as he hated the way it made him feel) being on a tiny amount of Vicodin. "And stop looking at me like that. I know you thought you were trying to protect me."

"Actually, I was mad at you and I wanted to hurt you. I also sort of—I think I just wanted my life to go back to normal and I convinced myself that you needed treatment because it was easier than dealing with what I was going to do to you. Part of me knew you'd never take that deal, and I didn't care what happened anymore. It just took a while for me to figure that out," I explained, but House did his whole obnoxious I-know-so-much-more-than-you thing.

"Well of course you say that now. But you agonize over decisions. You wouldn't even buy a new brand of cereal without thinking about it for at least 3 days. You told Tritter, because you knew I was spinning out of control. I was sinking and I was gonna take you and everyone else I could get my hands on down with me. Sure you had selfish reasons for what you did, but if you wanted to hurt me you wouldn't have bothered with making sure I could go someplace to get clean and save my medical license."

"You know what's weird?" He rolled his eyes. "You're using my usual argument, and I'm using yours. It's like we've swapped personalities, like you suddenly started to think that I'm right and you're wrong. That concerns me, because you tend to act like you're always right," I tried to explain, but he still wasn't listening. So, I let him watch TV, mouthing something I still couldn't make out.

XXXXX

House didn't eat dinner that night, but I let him get away with it, mainly because I knew that he sometimes skipped meals here and there, especially when he wasn't doing so well. He slept on and off again, sniffing and making sad little noises, his hair rubbing under my chin. I tried everything I could think of to comfort him, but (of course) I was unable to help. "It's going to be alright," I promised my unconscious, exhausted, pain addled friend. "I'm gonna make sure of it."

The next morning he wouldn't even pretend to pick at his breakfast, or attempt to hide bits of food in his napkin. "What are you doing?' I scooted closer to him, rubbing tiny little circles around his belly. "Is your stomach still bothering you?"

"I'm not detoxing anymore, I'm fine," he spat, trying to sound hateful but coming off terrified. A minute went by. He looked over at me sadly. "I just—I can't help being freaked out. Tritter said he was gonna—he threatened to…he said it didn't matter whether I went to rehab or jail, he was gonna keep…attacking me, no matter what. So, he said—he said, well the point is, he's like me. He's not the sort of guy who just gives in. I didn't even give in when you guys cornered me," he explained. I nodded, pulling him closer to me, and stroking his hair softly.

"I want you to relax," I said, wanting it to sound like an order, but not going anywhere close to pulling it off. "Have you been taking the new meds?" Greg didn't say anything, he didn't have to. I sighed, pressing my lips to his temple softly. "You don't have to take them for very long, but while you're here, hiding out, you might as well enjoy the benefits." He looked away, pursing his lips. "You don't like them? No—that's not it, sorry. Okay, I got it. You think if you keep taking the sedatives then everyone—including me—is gonna start to think that you might actually belong in this place?"

"I don't give one crap what everyone else thinks, but I don't want you to…yeah, okay. I don't want you to think of me as some crazy person who can't even function. It's just. I was doing perfectly fine before this, sort of. I was coping until he came in and started to screw with me, and my life, and my—and me."

"I don't think you need them. I don't think you belong here—well, alright, I sort of do but it's got nothing to do with your current situation or the Vicodin—and I sure as Hell don't see you as some pathetic infant who can't handle day to day life. We came here to keep them from being able to put you away, and the only reason I'm offering you the Benzos is because you are stressed out and tired." House made his whatever gesture but started to pick at bits of the food.

"Can I go home now," he practically begged, rolling onto his side, cuddling close to me, and rubbing his leg as if it were hurting more than usual. It wasn't uncommon for Greg to try and manipulate people; Hell, he did it all the time. Aside from diagnostics, manipulation was one of the few things he could do well, one of the things he did best. But at this point he was over doing it a little. I wasn't sure why, but it made me think that he was asking for one thing while he actually wanted (perhaps even needed) something else. "Please? It can be my Christmas present."

"You never ask for presents. I tried to give you one on your birthday, just after we met, and you threatened to flush it down the toilet?" He smiled weakly. "What's really going on here?

"I don't ask for presents but you insist on getting me stuff anyway. Figured I'd like this better than some ugly tie. And what's going on here is that Tritter is jail, I'm gonna get away with what I did, and you don't hate me anymore. All I want now is to be able to go home. I like my apartment. I feel safe there." That's when I knew he was lying, but still had no idea what about.

"You actually wanna stay here, don't you," I asked, cautiously. He shrugged just a little. "Come here," I insisted, wrapping my arms around his body, and holding him tightly. I want you to know that whatever you do decide, I will always be there for you, I'll stick by your side no matter what." He grunted, and rolled his eyes, but eased up on the pathetic act. I held him for what felt like an extremely long time, while I tried to think about what was happening to us, what he wanted, and wishing I knew how to do anything that would make him feel even the tiniest bit better. "Are you still worried because you think they're letting you off too easily?" He finally nodded, still silent, and looking fully exhausted in every way possible. "They aren't. This is not easy. You have been kidnapped, you have been raped, and you got the crap beaten out of you. Then, the same man that did all those things to you started to take apart your life, piece by piece, stomping on it. First he took your pills—don't struggle, you need to hear all of this together to understand just how horribly you've been treated the last couple of months but I promise to make it quick and as painless as I can. Then, he tried to rip us apart, and he almost did it, but I stuck by you. So, he went after me. He froze my bank accounts, he took my car, he made it impossible for me to do my job, because I couldn't write prescriptions—which hurt you too because you had to beg your team for pills and when they wouldn't' give you any you had to go to Cuddy, who you have problems with anyway—but I still didn't get mad at you. Then, he pushed you and he pushed me harder, he hurt us. He made you go through detox, and not in a safe or healthy way. You were in pain, you were sick, you were scared, you had just been raped and you couldn't tell anybody—" Greg cut me off.

"I told Chase. He helped me. He even gave me some of—he takes Benzos, not while he's working, not often, just when things get really bad—anyway he gave me some. Didn't help with the pain, but I wasn't as freaked out. I wasn't half as alone and terrified as you think."

"I'm sure Chase's pills were extremely helpful, but he didn't go home with you at night. He didn't sit on your couch and wrap his arms around you and promise to make everything okay. You were alone at home, and you were terrified that the cop was coming back. Then, things escalated. I got frustrated, and it made me mad at you. That patient almost died. You had a panic attack when Chase grabbed you and you hit him and I was afraid that the kid was gonna go to the cop on his own. So, I tried to…I was mad and I was worried and I thought I could protect you a little. I ratted you out to the same monster who had attacked you and who was trying to destroy your life. Then, Cuddy and I conspired against you to force you into rehab—which by the way you don't really need—by taking away the only thing you could count on anymore. We took your meds and we made you sicker, and I completely shattered your trust in me. I know what was happening when I walked in. You were preparing to try and kill yourself, weren't you?" He shrugged, looking away; I can't answer that question without making you mad at me, he meant."After all that you don't think that you've suffered enough?"

"He said, that the deal wasn't—he said the deal wasn't fake but it might as well be because he was gonna keep coming back and hurting me no matter where I was, okay? And I know that's what they all say, but he meant it. He was. He had…he—he," House stammered. I rubbed his back gently, and reached for the pills, taking one out, and placing it in his mouth. "He was never going to leave me alone. Guys like him don't stop. They never stop, and you expect me to believe that he just walked into the police station and confessed to attacking a bunch of people?" I didn't know what to say, except that no one had told me what was happening aside from Tritter's confession. Personally I believed that he had done something really horrible—even worse than what he'd done to House—and was trying to save his own ass. He thought they might go easy on him if they thought he was cooperating. I told this to Greg and he responded in his usual way, by making a soft sound that I was unable to understand, and looked away, but I had a feeling that he might be starting to believe me.

"It's over now, or at least, well…that is—the worst is over now, and even if he is trying to pull something, I won't let him get away with it okay?" He nodded quickly, looking at me with a concerned look on his face, and pursing his lips. "Don't say you believe me if you think I'm wrong or if…do you understand why I'm asking you to do that, Buddy?" He shrugged, but smiled a tiny bit, like maybe he was actually starting to trust me. "Attaboy. Tell me I'm a jackass, please? I just wanna know that the real you is still in there," I begged, touching his hair softly. House looked up at me defiantly, and even managed another small smile.

"Go to Hell," he muttered. "Jackass." I smiled back, and held him close. "Tell me the thing again. Say that everything's gonna be okay. Don't believe you, but it makes me feel better. A little."

"Everything is going to be okay," I swore, meaning every word of it, and pulling his body even closer to my own.