SUMMARY: He'll use whatever strategies he can.
RATING: R for language and themes (gen fic).
WARNINGS: Details the aftermath of events in Bad Company, a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
NOTES: The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in Bad Company; the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.
He sits in his car -- the ratty old one that smells of many things, none of which are vomit -- and hopes that what he's doing is not as rotten as he fears it is. If Cuddy knew, she'd pull off one of her stiletto heels and ram it through his heart. He wouldn't even blame her.
It isn't fair to her. It's dangerous, but it's the best chance he has of keeping the devil at bay. The more company, the more people coming and going from the apartment, the less likely that Martin will choose to drop in. He's a psycho, but he's a smart and careful psycho; hell, he's a genius. House's head throbs as he turns the key in the ignition, listening to the engine grudgingly agree to start.
Smarter than me. He always was one step ahead, always. That gap might have been narrowed in the years since they were kids, but the trouble is that Martin's as expert a criminal as House is a physician. There's the matter of practice, of acquired skills and learned patterns. Martin has decades of training in his chosen field. He is, above all else, a professional. That's the one thing that might stop him from killing Wilson just to see the look on House's face. It's also the thing that will make him hesitant to get other witnesses involved.
His stomach aches at the thought of Cuddy ever having to meet Martin under any circumstances. Yet House has put her in a position where that's possible; she could come to Martin's attention. It's not what House wants, but even if it happens, she'll probably be safe. Instinctively House knows that Martin won't go after her. He has already found House's weak spot and he'll stay focused on it -- on Wilson -- until he loses interest or is called away on business.
Martin's never been the sort who hurts girls for kicks, anyway. Left to his own devices, he prefers to target men. It's not chivalry; it's simply that the male of the species is larger, stronger prey, a bigger trophy. More fun to destroy.
House wishes, with every ounce of hatred in his soul, that he could turn the rifle scope around and put the hunter in the crosshairs. He wishes, for all the good that does him, that he were detached, that he could look at Martin Grey and not see the string of defeats. He could fight back if he couldn't recall the fear, the damage, the long summer afternoons when no one else paid him any mind and Martin was there for him. Always there, always a step ahead. If I had any sense, I'd go get Wilson's gun, he thinks, for about the thousandth time.
For the thousandth time his own mind answers, Yeah. And if you give it to Wilson and he has another bad flashback? He won't be just holding your wrist this time, he'll be pointing a gun at your face.
I'll keep it. Put it in my nightstand drawer.
Where it won't do you any good when Martin breaks in in the middle of the night and kills Wilson before you can get it out.
So Wilson does need it. Post-traumatic bullshit or not.
The little voice in his head snorts.
It would take Martin about two seconds to take it away from him. Disarming an injured man who's only got one good hand? Candy from a fucking baby. And then?
He'd kill Wilson with it.
House lays his forehead against the steering wheel and closes his eyes. His brain is telling him to go, to get home, but still the scenario plays out inexorably in his mind.
Wilson, murdered in his bed. Martin, turning to House, that relentless curiosity in his eyes.
And then he'd kill me.
He'd put the gun in my hand. Wait to see what I'd do.
And what would you do, Greg?
"No," House murmurs softly. "Get out of my head." He straightens suddenly, and smacks hard at the top of the steering wheel. "Get out of my fucking head!" he shouts.
Maybe it's you that needs that psych card, not Wilson.
"Go to hell," he tells himself, and hits the gas pedal hard on his way out of the garage.