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House had overlooked something crucial when thinking about his odds of surviving jail without a scratch.
Of course, it's stupid in retrospective. How couldn't he think about how needing a cane would make everyone see him as weak, as a possible victim? He should've grit and bore the pain. He should've ditched the prison-issued cane whenever he could. That way, all they could see would be the opposite of the typical prison bitch— a six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, older man. But with the cane, they could oversee all those things and just see a possible thing to use.
Which is what happened.
How could he not prevent it? How could he not see it coming?
His leg hurts . He's curled up on his bunk, his jaw still aching dully. He can't sleep, the man's touch on him poisonous. He shouldn't be the one, the victim, there's so many pretty usable young men, but they're not arrogant, stuck-up cripples that these fuckers would love to see crumble, so—
He should've kept to himself. He shouldn't have been so stuck up and gotten into petty arguments. This is all his fault. God, this is all his fault.
He swallows and runs his thumb over his lip. His jaw hurts, a reminder of what just happened to him. And afterward he just left, let his body drop back onto the cold cement, sneered at him. Would he come back? Would he keep going at it, again and again and again? Would he never be free from this until his sentence ended?
The mere idea makes him sick. He gags a little— a feeling he has become used to in the last hour or so— and dry heaves, his head spinning.
He has to get away. He has to keep himself safe.
He cannot let this happen again. Otherwise, it will keep being his fault, again and again. He'll never be a proper victim.
(He can hear Wilson not believing him, going You? You got raped? Sure. He can see Chase's worry, looking over him with those stupid-ass puppy eyes. He can see everyone looking at him with pity because oh he's acting different . He has to pretend nothing happened in prison. That it was a standard prison experience. That he got in arguments, got sent to solitary— oh. Got sent to solitary.)
House's face lights up, even if just for a second.
He knew that solitary would fuck with his psyche even more, but at least it was not being there with everyone else. The mere thought of everyone knowing he had been brought to his knees after getting kicked in his bad leg, how he didn't even fight, how he just zoned out, how his eyes went glassy as he fucked his mouth— it made bile rise up his throat. So he had to cause trouble, the most trouble he could without getting his sentence to be longer.
So he had caused trouble. And he had gotten what he wanted.
It's a week and four days in when he starts hallucinating. It's Amber again, at first, but afterward he gets the entire cast. And of course, there's Wilson. Always Wilson.
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," Wilson tells him, kneeling next to his spot on the floor, leaning up to cup his cheek. He feels like a kid, like a stupid, stupid kid. He whimpers, tears threatening to slide down his cheeks. "You didn't deserve it."
"You did," Amber replies, clicking her tongue. "Of course you fucking did. Stop lying to him, Wilson. He deserved to get abused in fucking prison—"
"Shut up," Wilson whispers, eyes glinting with anger for a second. House's stomach flips; is his brain fucked up enough to hallucinate Wilson taking his anger out on him? But no, it disappears. He keeps holding him. "You're okay, House. It will all be okay."
The real Wilson will not tell him it will all be okay. The real Wilson will not want to talk to him. The real Wilson will not believe his stupid story about how he got raped in prison (and hey, it wasn't rape -rape, it didn't go up his ass, right?). The real Wilson will not hold him. The real Wilson will not pity him, will not sympathize with him. But he still soaks in the fake comfort, the unrealistic comfort, because he needs it.
"I'm sorry," he croaks out.
God, he sounds so stupid. He sounds pathetic. He has to get his shit together, even if just to pretend and prance around acting as if everything is fine. He could go back to normal, he could get shitfaced as soon as he got back home from work, call up hookers and try not to puke his guts out at every touch.
He's going to learn to cope with this, even if all the coping strategies he knows are poor at best and terrible at worst.
Please , he begs his brain. Please don't let me hallucinate anyone I know taking advantage of me.
His brain has little mercy— he won't hallucinate it, but he sure as hell will dream it.
He wakes up sweating from head to toe, trying his best not to scream. In the corner of the room, Amber is there, smiling at him, knowing. Of course she knows, being his subconscious and all.
"Wilson should do that to you," Amber says, crossing her arms, looking at him, looking through him. "Perhaps that's the only time he'll want to talk to you. You know, after crashing your car into Cuddy's dining room and all. That's the best you can get from him." She steps closer to him, tilting her head. "You'd get used to it after a while. You'd be the one enabling bad behavior, letting him do whatever he wants with you, instead of the other way around as it's always been for you two. It'd be cute, wouldn't it?"
That's what makes House break down into sobs.