Judas' Forgiveness

[damigella]

Title: Judas' Forgiveness
Rating: NC-17 for adult themes.
Warnings: Description and consequences of rape from The Price Of Silver. See also warnings there.
Summary: 18:21 Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times? 18:22 Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but, Until seventy times seven. (Gospel of Matthew, KJV)
51:3 For I acknowledge my transgressions: and my sin is ever before me. 51:9 Hide thy face from my sins, and blot out all mine iniquities. (Psalms, KJV)
Word count: ~2300.
Author's Note: This is a sequel to The Price Of Silver, so you should read that first (or instead). My warmest thanks to nightdog_barks who generously gave me permission to write a sequel. It is very different in tone from the original, and is due to my desperate need to know what happened. No slash, strong h/w friendship. Thanks to karaokegal for answering a weird question reassuringly. Not beta read, because I can't change it.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the House, MD characters, which is good since I tend to kill them.

House felt like a bird in flight; the cold air blowing all around his body was refreshing but not chilling. The post-orgasmic haze and the chemical high mixed well with the feeling of intense freedom no car, not even the Corvette, could give him. He took his favorite scenic route; a long, pleasant drive along little-frequented roads, meandering through the countryside and along the quiet river, away from traffic and people. Especially people.

His head felt wonderfully empty as he concentrated on the physical pleasure of driving, of feeling one with the engineering masterpiece carrying him, his movements effortlessly determining its angle and speed; he thought once again how a motorcycle driver was the modern, high-tech version of a centaur, a sensation that was especially valuable to him as the mechanically perfect wheels and engine replaced his own faulty legs.

Having followed thoughtlessly the usual route he found himself back to mankind about three hours later. Traffic was anyway next to non-existent so late on December 25th, and he was already almost home when he realized he had no idea what he would find there. The police with an easily proven rape accusation? Or Wilson still tied to the bed, unable to open the handcuffs with the left hand because of the broken arm, waiting for his return in mind-numbing pain?

The artificial high was now almost gone, and his thigh was hurting again. He toyed with the idea of checking into a hotel, refueling on booze and drugs and forgetting about his problems for the night, but the thought of Wilson left him no choice. He drove home, parked, and swallowed one more Vicodin as he walked up to his own door. One only: this time he wanted to be able to behave rationally.

*****

"There's Chinese takeout, but it's cold now."

House felt his face lose color at the sight of the man sitting on his couch. He approached him slowly and in silence, feeling like he was looking at a ghost. He didn't go too near, but enough to notice Wilson hadn't showered after he had seen him last.

The enormity of his crime, a crime against friendship and trust even more than against the law, an enormity he had hidden under drugs and booze and the joy of driving, flared up within him. He had raped and seriously hurt his best friend who had come to help him, taking advantage of his trust to physically overpower him, and it wasn't a horrible nightmare but reality because there he was, reeking of sweat and blood and fear, his left arm in a makeshift splint, his right wrist bearing the signs of the cuff. "Wilson, I…"

He didn't quite know how to finish the sentence, or even if he could have finished it at all, but it didn't matter, because Wilson interrupted him. "House, we have a very busy night in front of us. We'll both need food and coffee. Please put the takeout in the microwave, brew more coffee, and make me a better splint. I'm pretty useless with my right hand, unfortunately."

"But..."

"Not now."

*****

The trial day had been set early, upon request of both House's and Wilson's lawyers. Both doctors had filed sworn declarations that House had signed several of his own Vicodin prescriptions on Wilson's pad, always with Wilson's knowledge and usually in his presence. They claimed they had an ongoing bet on which of the PPTH pharmacy employees would eventually notice and refuse to fill in a scrip. It was an offense against professional regulations of course, but a minor one (also because of what it implied about respect for said regulations on the part of the hospital pharmacy), and it didn't concern the police at all.

Two amicus briefs by top level specialists certified that Wilson hadn't been overprescribing, that House needed opiates for pain control, and that his medical and driving abilities weren't impaired by Vicodin. When Cuddy's testimony demolished the accusation of House having swiped painkillers intended for a deceased patient, the PA had two pieces of evidence left: House's Vicodin stash and (making it much more relevant) Wilson's signed declaration that House had stolen his prescription pad and forged his signature.

On the witness stand, Wilson declared that he had been threatened by Tritter, but admitted that he couldn't prove this. House noticed the PA winking at Tritter, who answered with a smirk. The PA left the witness to his own lawyer.

House looked at Wilson, knowing what was to come, guilt burning his throat like acid reflux.

"Dr. Wilson, did you have any reason to fear Detective Tritter?"

"I was assaulted while walking to my hotel from the bus stop, late in the evening. Two men, their faces covered, dragged me in a blind alley. They both seemed stronger than me; they were obviously expert in physical fighting. One of them pushed me against a wall, held my head with one hand and pointed what felt like a gun to my left ear; he whispered I shouldn't move. The other…"

Wilson paused. House saw him take a sip of water from the glass in front of him. He tightened his hold on his cane.

"The other one pulled down my trousers and my underwear to my knees. He touched my anus with a fingertip, for a few seconds, pressing slightly. The first one said I should behave myself, or there would be consequences. Then he told me to count to hundred without moving, keeping my eyes closed. I did. When I opened my eyes again, I was alone. I put my clothes in order and went home. That evening I went to Detective Tritter's office and accepted his deal. I never reported the assault."

"Did anything of a similar nature happen again?"

House wished he could run away. Or, better, die.

"Yes. On the evening of December 25th, not long after I told Detective Tritter that I wanted to withdraw my accusation against Dr. House. I was ambushed by two men, possibly the same as the previous time. I was forced in a car at gunpoint and blindfolded. We drove for maybe fifteen minutes, then I was led into a building, possibly an isolated house."

Wilson paused to wipe sweat from his forehead. "There I was thrown on what felt like a bed. One of them pressed on my back with a knee, and the other handcuffed my right wrist, I think to the bedpost."

House felt like someone was clamping all air out of him. He looked around, but no one was noticing: all eyes were on Wilson.

"What happened then?"

"I was raped."

House fought back tears. Wilson's voice tone was flat, his eyes fixed on the white wall in front of him.

"Did you try to protest or defend yourself?"

"I begged them to stop the moment someone started opening my belt. I was told to shut up. When I tried to stop the assault using my free left arm, the man on top of me first sprained it, then broke it. I didn't fight any more."

The dry list of details followed like a series of punches in the gut. House thought his guilt must be now plainly visible on his face. But again, nobody was looking at him. Most jury members were shocked, and even the judge seemed ill at ease. All were believing the tale Wilson had made up while sitting on House's couch, a broken arm on his chest, dried blood in his underwear, waiting for House to return. A tale very close to the truth, and yet opposite to it.

He forced his attention to return to the present and to Wilson's words.

"…managed to drive my car to Dr. House's place. I let myself in and waited until he came home. He took care of me and finally convinced me to go to ER and report the rape."

The fact that he didn't die struck by lightning in that very moment needlessly confirmed House's atheism.

*****

Later, House and the ER doctors gave evidence confirming Wilson's declarations. The lesions on Wilson's right wrist were compatible with the handcuffs used by the local police - one pair of which, complete with key, had mysteriously vanished from Tritter's office a couple of days before the rape.

Both Wilson and House were fully acquitted. None of the small group of friends who were present at the verdict was surprised when a very tired-looking Wilson asked House whether he could spend the night at his place. House nodded, and they drove away together.

*****

Wilson sighed and sat on the couch as House closed his door. "It's over. Finally."

House also sat on the couch, but not too near. "Time to talk." He looked at the cane between his legs.

"Yes. As we agreed."

The cane fell to the floor, as House hid his face in his palms. "Wilson, I raped you, and you used this to keep me out of prison. Why?"

Wilson sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose briefly.

"It's complicated. When you attacked me, you said you took control. And indeed you took control of my body, of my pain. Any decision wasn't mine, but yours. What hurt was not only…what you did, but my helplessness. The being totally and completely at your mercy, my body open to your whims."

House lifted his eyes and tried to speak, but Wilson gestured to him to be quiet. House hid his face again.

"I've thought about this a lot, since. I finally realized I had done something very similar to you. I was the one deciding how much pain you could endure. No wonder you needed to forge my signature, to stash away the pills: the risk didn't matter, just as I risked you breaking my arm in the attempt to regain control over my body."

House heard Wilson take a deep breath, then scoot slightly closer; he felt his hands being gently lifted away from his face, and then his chin was tilted up and his eyes were locked in Wilson's.

"House, if you want to, if you need to, you can apologize to me now."

"Wilson, I…I hurt you." House couldn't bring himself to use the word rape again. Not when looking in Wilson's eyes. He tried to go on, but couldn't. His eyes filled with silent tears. "I'm sorry," he choked out.

"You didn't really mean to. You were stoned."

House's self-directed anger roared briefly. "I wasn't too stoned, as I can still remember clearly everything I did. I have been unable to forget it even for one hour since. I have nightmares about it every night. I can't forgive myself. And yet you…you forgive me?" The tears kept flowing, and House didn't care at all. The hope in his heart was so strong and so unreasonable that he hadn't until now dared admit it to himself.

"Yes." Wilson paused, and House appreciated the time he was given to savor this one syllable. "You…did hurt me. A lot. But I was a sober, sanctimonious bastard causing you physical pain for months. And I hope you forgive me, too."

House nodded, as his tears diminished, without ceasing. He wiped them away with his sleeves. His voice had a dark undertone when he spoke again. "You saved my life by not denouncing me. I'd rather die than go to prison."

"I knew that, and I saved my own life as well. Had I caused your death, I would have done what Judas did."

House dried his last tears, and thought about the risk he had run, for both of them. Wilson spoke again. "Were you afraid to be arrested when you came back…afterward?"

"I was afraid you would be unable to open the cuffs." House had to tell the whole truth, not just a part of it. "And I was sure I wouldn't find the police."

He slowly realized that Wilson had hoped exactly for such an answer.

Wilson didn't say anything for a while, just kept looking at House.
Then, softly, he murmured "I felt like I was dead, and in hell, and the suffering would never end. The police wouldn't have helped."

The same terrible memory came and hit them both hard: Wilson's face went ghostly pale, House fought desperately to avoid crying again, and barely succeeded. House knew that memory would haunt them both, possibly forever. He wondered whether he would be able to find another job, if it turned out Wilson couldn't face seeing him every day at work.

Wilson had to gulp twice before he could talk again.

"I took two of your Vicodins and splinted my arm to dull the pain. And my first thought, when I was finally able to think, was fear. Fear you would kill yourself by driving stoned and drunk. In that moment I understood that some things cannot be broken, no matter how hard you push, and our friendship is one of them. The cornerstone of both our lives. What you just said proves that you knew it as well."

There was a long pause, as House considered Wilson's words. He would never have been able to say them himself, of course. But he deeply felt their truth. His whispered "Yes" was so low that he was afraid Wilson couldn't hear it. He did, though, because he smiled.

House instantly knew how long he hadn't seen that smile. And for the first time since Christmas, he smiled back.

 

Comments

[cellista-in-c.livejournal.com]

*shudders* A very nicely written sequel, though I have to admit that the subject matter makes me queasy. The first two paragraphs, House's motorcycle ride, is especially well done - it's very lyrical, which is such a contrast to the horrific thing he's just done.

I do wonder if they truly could go back to being friends though, despite Wilson's saying that the friendship can't be broken. Hard to imagine that they could face each other every day after that, let alone do friend things like watching movies alone in House's apartment. Maybe it wouldn't break so much as just slowly erode away under the weight of what happened. *pensive*

On the whole, very well done :)

[damigella-314.livejournal.com]

I do wholly and totally believe it could happen. That's probably my Catholic background hitting me hard - I believed so strongly in the infinite possibility of forgiveness for so many years that I can't let go of it even now there's no longer a god in my sky.

In the original version, the fic actually ended with Wilson proposing to House to share the bed. I scrapped it because I was afraid it would be taken in a sexual sense, while what I meant by it is precisely that Wilson wants to prove to House and to himself that this terrible story is behind them. That he knows and likes and trusts the real House, not the monster he was made into by drugs.

Another part I didn't write was House voluntarily giving up alcohol forever and finding a good pain management specialist so as to reduce his opiate consumption to a minimum (I can't believe he can do without, sorry).

The friendship slowly eroding seems to me a terribly sad possibility, sadder in my eyes than House (and, subsequently, Wilson) killing himself out of guilt (which was of course my first reaction to nightdog_barks' original story - it's still me under the Zoloft).

[nightdog-barks.livejournal.com]

A very interesting take on the situation, and so sad that Wilson is still so broken inside that he must blame himself for House's assault.

I really did like the "lightning" line. :-)

[damigella-314.livejournal.com]

"he must blame himself for House's assault."
He doesn't blame himself. House is guilty, and Wilson knows it and helps him do something he's not good at - acknowledge guilt and ask for forgiveness.

But Wilson knows he's not blameless either; it's easier to forgive someone when you are guilty of something analogous. I think Wilson is thinking back of House breaking his own hand, and realizing how much pain he has inflicted on his friend overtime. Wilson feeling guilty doesn't make House innocent - it just makes them closer.

I knew when I wrote this that whatever you considered as possible aftermath this wasn't it. But this is how I feel Wilson.

Thank you again for giving me the chance to write this. I think this is the fic of mine I've worked hardest at. I just couldn't let Wilson there, and had to find a way out; I was very surprised when I found out that what made sense to me was forgiveness.

[mmorgan317.livejournal.com]

This was good. :) You did a good job of making it all believable and keeping them in character. Great job!