These drabbles are based on DIYSHEEP's brilliant story, The Contract. It is an honor to a be a part of something so deep and meaningful in this world of triteness and unoriginality.

Wilson helped House onto the king sized bed, which was overloaded with pillows and blankets. One side of it had a permanent rail that had been purchased at a children’s furniture store, the kind designed to prevent toddlers from falling out of bed. It was lined with a navy blue crib bumper, the most generic and non-infant themed one that Wilson could possibly find. The other side of the bed had plastic rail that could be opened and closed, so House could get in and out.

Once House had found a comfortable position, Wilson tucked the blankets up around him. He knew that all the time House had spent sleeping on a cold, concrete floor had made him sensitive. It was easily seventy degrees in House’s room. But, with little body fat to protect him, Wilson decided, he could still get cold.

After giving him a shower, Wilson had dried House’s hair, thoroughly. He didn’t want to send House to bed with wet hair. Even though he knew there was no medical evidence to support it, his Mother had always told him that going to bed with wet hair could make a person sick. The last thing that House needed was a cold or an upper respiratory infection, on top of all his other problems.

House didn't like the blow dryer. It was either the heat or the loud noise that made him shrink back in terror whenever Wilson had turned it on. So, Wilson was stuck with towel drying. He'd even long since abandoned his own habitual hair styling routines, not wanting to cause House any undue alarm. Wilson had also purchased a more expensive model of vacuum cleaner, which was marketed for it’s quietness.

Wilson had dressed House in navy blue thermal long johns and quilted, wool socks. It was the most effective way to keep him warm, even if it drastically accentuated the bony frame he’d adopted after months of painful starvation. Wilson knew that House liked to be covered up. He wasn’t really sure if it was something that made him feel more safe, or if he just didn’t like being cold. But, even the slightest amount of exposed skin could result in a bout of spontaneous shivering, and prevent him from getting his much needed rest.

House let his eyes fall closed, apparently warm enough to be content. Wilson made sure to turn on the night light before shutting off the lamp by House’s bed. Darkness was not House’s friend, and it’s presence only seemed to magnify the fear that already plagued him on a daily basis.

Wilson ran a quick hand across his friend’s scarred face, as if he could wipe away all of the more superficial damage with a loving hand. He bent over to plant a kiss on House’s forehead, and couldn’t ignore the tremble that resulted from his touch. Even now that House was safe, he still couldn’t seem to trust that no one meant him harm. No one ever got as close to him as Wilson did, though.

Wilson felt the tinge of sadness that usually accompanied this nighttime routine. He swallowed hard. He really believed, in his heart, that it had been hate that had done this to his friend, made him a shivering shell of a man who jumped at every sound. That being the case, Wilson knew that only love could undo such damage. It would have to be his love. While some people probably thought that caring for House posed some sort of burden to Wilson, he only viewed it as a privilege.

Wilson repeated his nightly refrain, running a quick hand through House’s freshly washed hair.

"Goodnight. I love you. I’ll be right outside that door if you need me for anything...anything at all."

Wilson knew that House might not understand a word he was saying. But, in the off chance that he could, he wanted him to know that he was safe, that he was loved, that there was no reason to be afraid...anymore.

Those were the easy nights, the nights when House went down without a fight. It was the nights that he resisted that Wilson dreaded the most. House seemed to know that, even though he was alone in the darkness, an unseen enemy could come, in the form of a nightmare, and take him away from that safe place. Those were the nights that House refused to lay down, unless Wilson was laying beside him.

House would wrap his arms around Wilson, as if he were the only thing standing between him and imminent peril. Wilson would rock him, gently, until he felt House’s breathing slow and relax. Only then could Wilson ease out of the bed, leaving House to another restless night of bitterly stored memories.

In those rare events that even that Wilson’s mere presence wasn’t enough to calm him, he would sing. Wilson loved to sing, and he had a lovely voice. But, a certain kind of shyness had always kept him from doing so in front of other people. Over the years, he’d caught himself doing it in the shower, and his wives always treated it like some sort of joke. But, House didn’t laugh at him, of course. He hadn’t laughed in years, probably, and Wilson wasn’t sure if he ever would again.

House would stare at him, curiously, as the melody left his lips. He’d listen, intently, until his eyelids became heavy and he eventually succumbed to sleep.

Wilson would usually sing the songs his Mother had sung to him and his brothers. House seemed to prefer Jim Croche’s "Time in a Bottle" and "You are so Beautiful" by Joe Cocker. Sometimes Wilson let himself wonder what people might think, seeing him singing to and cradling a grown man who slept in a make-shift crib. But, he knew that didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered, at that moment, was getting House to feel safe again.

It was the little things, the totally random and minor things, that Wilson couldn’t seem to predict. He’d always believed that you could prepare for things, take precautions to ensure the most positive outcome. But, taking care of House had challenged all that.

The first day Wilson brought him home, after the hospital released him, he realized that feeding would be a challenge. House had a stomach tube inserted to ease the transition. It had been so long since he’d been allowed to inject solid food, on a regular basis, that his body literally rejected it.

Wilson noticed, immediately, that House ate only with his hands. He’d laid out utensils for him, but House scooped his food up on desperate fingers, shoving it into his mouth and swallowing too fast. Often the food came right back up again. But, House didn’t seem to care. House only seemed to eat when he thought Wilson wasn’t watching. But, Wilson had seen enough to speculate on what kind of damage had been done to his friend, and it horrified him.

If Wilson was near, House would wait for him to either get up and leave, or look away, before trying to sneak food past his lips. Despite the fact that Wilson had a kitchen that was well stocked, House never ate anything, unless it was laid out directly in front of him. Even then, he would look at Wilson with eyes that said ‘Is this really for me?’

The first really strange thing, of course, had to do with the food. Wilson discovered that House seemed to favor small, finger-sized foods that were easy to handle. Repeated and neglected injuries to House’s hands had made it nearly impossible for him to grasp and maneuver things the way he had once done so gracefully. Wilson made sure to give House things to eat that he could get successfully his hand around. The problem was, that foods like these were also pretty easy to hide and stash.

The first time Wilson discovered this, was when he was making House’s bed. The night before he had made ravioli in some sort of white Alfredo sauce. Although he didn’t witness it with his own eyes, Wilson noted that House had, eventually, cleaned his plate. He was relieved, because House was so thin and malnourished that he would never be able to get his health back unless he could put on some weight.

The next morning, Wilson found the ravioli in House’s pillow case, along with some pretzels that had shared while watching television, the day before. He didn’t both trying to explain to House that a pillow case is not a very good place for ravioli. House’s therapist, Dr. Simpson, later told Wilson that House would simply have to learn, over time, that sustenance was no longer in shortage, that it wasn’t necessary to stash things away.

One of the first nights that Wilson had spent in House’s bed was marked by another, rather unexpected occurrence. It was just another reminder that it was impossible to really prepare for things, especially when you had no idea what those things were.

It had become quite clear, from the start, that bed time was going to be the hardest time of all, for both of them. House had thrashed and moaned and finally given in around midnight. Wilson was so exhausted that, by the end of the first week, the lack of sleep was beginning to affect his ability to think clearly. Hearing House finally succumb to a fitful snore, Wilson allowed himself to nod off, only to be woken again a short time later.

Wilson was first aware of the sensation of wetness. It was only after a few minutes of lying in the dark, trying to process, that Wilson realized what had happened. House had wet the bed. It took all the strength Wilson had left, in his body, to change the sheets and both of their clothes. But, he didn’t complain. Knowing what House had endured had cured Wilson from ever feeling sorry for himself again.

The detective who had handled House’s case, told Wilson that House had been left in the prison's solitary confinement, with no exposure to light or people, for an amount of time that far surpassed that which would make most ordinary men completely insane. There had been no toilet and no bed. House had slept on the concrete, without a pillow to rest his head on. Bodily functions were taken care of, rather crudely, in the corner of his cell. Of course, that also meant he was forced to live with the smell and the filth, which was only remedied, by some unwilling and underpaid janitor, on a monthly basis.

House didn’t seem to be aware of what had happened. He didn’t have the presence of mind to be embarrassed or ashamed, although he did appear to be rather uncomfortable in his urine saturated pajamas. He squirmed and fidgeted as a terribly sleep deprived Wilson tried his best to peel them off.

After that, upon the advice of Dr. Simpson, Wilson didn’t allow House to have anything to drink after eight pm. The bed wetting was infrequent, maybe only two or three times a month. Wilson didn’t want to violate his friend’s dignity with adult diapers or rubber sheets, even if he didn’t really understand what was happening. He simply resigned himself to the fact that he would be doing some occasional late night changing of bed clothes. It certainly wasn’t any stranger than any of the other things he’d found himself doing, since he’d taken House into his care.

Wilson was determined to try and inflict some sort of normalcy on House. He was convinced that, if his friend’s life resumed as it once had, that he would eventually feel safe enough to come out of his shell and be the man he’d once been. This was of course, ridiculously unrealistic. But, Wilson had always fancied himself an hopeless optimist.

House usually woke up early, meaning that Wilson was forced to do the same. He didn’t want to risk House wandering the apartment unattended. The level of danger to him was similar to that of a toddler. Wilson had slowly managed to baby proof his home, once he realized exactly what he was dealing with.

It was when Wilson realized this, that he saw fit to create the crib-like bed for his friend. Unlike before, if House woke up in it, he would make no effort to climb out. While Wilson felt there was an aspect of cruelty, caging him like that, he knew that it was the safest course of action.

First thing in the morning, Wilson made sure that House used the toilet. For, at least, the first few months that House had come to live with him, he didn’t seem to remember to go on his own.

Wilson remembered his brother once commenting on how difficult it had been to potty train his son. He’d found that the secret was to simply take him to the toilet every ninety minutes, or so, to see if he needed to use it. That way, he could either go or decline. But, at least, he’d been made aware of the option. Wilson found that this technique was the most effective way for House to avoid accidents.

Wilson had to make sure that House washed his hands afterwards, because he wouldn't bother to do so otherwise. House didn’t seem to care too much for running water of any kind. Wilson knew that water had been used as an instrument of torture against House, on more that one occasion.

House blatantly refused to touch any water that was either very hot or very cold. He’d snatch his hand away and hug his arms to his body, protectively. Wilson learned to run the sink until the water came out just the right kind of warm, and then he’d soap up his friends hands and rinse them off. In other cases he simply relied on sanitary wipes.

The next event of the day was breakfast. Wilson figured out, early on, that House wasn’t partial to eating at the table. He seemed to prefer lying on the floor. While Wilson continually tried to encourage him to sit on the couch, he’d always find House curled up on the floor. So, Wilson had invested in a rather soft and fluffy area rug, and had lined it with cushions and body pillows. There, House was content to sprawl out and spend the morning eating dry cereal out of a plastic bowl, drinking his juice out of a sports bottle and watching cartoons.

Wilson hated the idea of using the television to pacify his friend. But, it seemed to be one of the only things that held his attention. Wilson still made sure to tune the set to the right channel for House’s soaps. House would watch, enraptured. Even though Wilson had no idea how much House really understood what he was watching, he was happy to be able to give him something, anything, to make up for all that he had lost.

After lunch, House napped. Wilson knew, for a variety of reasons, that House tired easily. He slept rather poorly at night. He was undernourished and his body had been so badly abused that it could only handle a few hours of wakefulness before it gave itself up.

Sometimes House would nap on the rug, with all of his pillows. Wilson would cover him with a blanket, slipping something under his head for support. Occasionally, House would make small sucking motions with his mouth. Dr. Simpson told Wilson that House had regressed, mentally, as an attempt to compensate for the abuse he'd experienced. He explained that people often choose to regress to the last time in their lives that they remember feeling safe. In House's case, that was infancy.

Wilson had become so worn by all of this, that he couldn't help breaking down. It was the inevitability of the task. The first time Wilson had seen House, asleep on the rug, suckling some imaginary pacification, he fell to his knees and bawled, silently. It was so unfair.

Wilson invested in toys to keep House busy. He’d found catalogues that marketed puzzles and games intended for gifted children. The livingroom was filled with several large plastic containers of such things for House’s entertainment. During the day, House seemed content to sprawl on his rug, working his way through the myriad of puzzles and toys that were at his disposal.

Dr. Cuddy, who had only visited once during the first few months of House’s stay, had remarked that Wilson’s behavior was akin to a parent, who spoils their child in order to compensate for some sort of guilt.

Wilson had laughed, but he knew that she was absolutely correct. Wilson felt guilty, of course, knowing what his friend had endured to save him...save his team, his boss. Even House's parents had been included as a bargaining chip, towards the end. While House had never seemed to hold any kind of sentimentality for his parents, or even his team, he had gone ahead and endured the abuse. Wilson knew, deep down, that he had been the determining factor. Above all else, it had been Wilson that House was trying to save.

So, Wilson bought those toys, and an endless list of other things, all just facets of his master plan to smother his friend with love.

The boy didn’t argue, because he knew there was no point. He'd learned to accept the circumstances that he was born into. He didn't want to waste any energy being bitter about it, because he knew that it wouldn't change anything. He couldn't help thinking that maybe he'd done something to deserve maltreatment, that maybe he was somehow inadequate or damaged.

His Father looked at him with angry eyes and loud words that cut into him as a reminder of his continuing failure to meet expectations. But, he knew that it was only the preamble to the real punishment. So, he didn't bother to listen.

He knew that it was wrong to lie, of course. He'd seen his Father lie a number of times, about things of varying importance. But, he'd come to learn that there were certain rules that only applied to him. He knew that it was wrong to hide the note that his teacher had sent home. Hiding the truth was just the same as lying. The boy didn’t factor in the possibility that his Mother would find the note while cleaning his room. He'd been convinced that his closet was an excellent hiding place.

Despite the fact that his Mother knew how badly her husband would react, she opted to show him what she'd found. The boy didn’t want to resent his Mother for not protecting him yet again, but he did.

It wasn’t that the boy didn’t want to be good. He just got bored so easily. It was so hard to pay attention when school seemed like a monotonous series of lessons in mediocrity. His Father reminded him that it wasn’t his place to decide what was important and what wasn’t. He’d lied and he’d hidden the note. He had made it look like his parents didn’t care and didn’t know what was going on with their own child’s education. That was unacceptable and now he was going to be punished.

He didn’t listen to his Father’s words. They didn’t matter, because they weren’t going to change what would happen next. He just waited for the signal to drop his pants and bend over the bed. He heard the familiar jingle of his Father’s belt and he hoped that, this time, he wouldn’t use the end with the buckle.

He gritted his teeth and clutched the blanket, counting the strokes in his head. He didn’t want to cry because he knew that would only make his Father angrier. He squeezed his eyes shut, to prevent the inadvertent tear from escaping down his face.

His Father finished and left. Before he went, he reminded his son that he wouldn’t be getting any dinner, so he might as well get dressed for bed.

He'd lain on his stomach, trying to ignore the throbbing and waited until he heard his parents go to bed for the night. He'd planned to wait until he was sure they were asleep, but the pain was too much. He'd hoped his Dad would be so engrossed in whatever book he was currently reading, that he wouldn't hear his son leaving his room when he wasn't supposed to be.

The boy crept downstairs to the kitchen. He could still smell the meatloaf, peas and mashed potatoes that his Mother made for dinner. While he loved his Mother’s meatloaf and could feel his stomach grumbling from the absence of food, he didn’t want to risk getting caught. He opened the freezer and removed a bag of frozen vegetables, wrapped them in a dish towel and took them back upstairs.

On his way back up to his room, the boy missed a step. He stumbled and knocked a picture off of the wall by the staircase. His heart pounded, and he wondered if the noise would be enough to alert his Father. He prayed not, and carefully placed the picture back on the nail where it had been hanging before.

He made it back to his room and closed the door part way. He wanted to close it all the way, but he wasn’t allowed. He climbed into bed and lay on his stomach, the bag of peas stuffed into his flannel pajama bottoms.

Within minutes, the crisp cold permeated his skin and the throbbing began to wane. He was just falling asleep when a sound in the hallway jarred him awake. He could hear the door to his room slowly creaking open and he dreaded the moment when he'd discover the reason.

His Father stood over him. Though he, too, was dressed in pajamas, his leather belt was in hand. It dangled, menacingly, and the boy soon regretted his trip downstairs.

The Father explained to his son that the purpose of the lesson was defeated if he didn’t have any pain to remind him of it. He confiscated the bag of frozen peas and gave his son a few additional lashes to make sure he would remember.

The boy held perfectly still. He knew he wouldn’t be sleeping well that night, but somehow he thought that not moving would make some kind of difference. In the morning he noticed streaks of blood on his underwear and pajama bottoms. He snuck them into the laundry, and prayed that the stain would be long removed before his Mother noticed it.

Wilson watched his friend sleep, his eyes darted back and forth under tired, darkened lids. His mouth worked, constantly, against the tip of his tongue. It protruded just slightly, and it made soft, little, wet noises. Wilson wished he had some inkling of what House was dreaming about. He knew that it was probably just another nightmare about the abuse his friend had endured. What he didn't know, and probably never would know, was that he was only partly right.

The boy stared at the aspirin bottle in his hand, shifting the contents back and forth like the sand in an hourglass. The pills rattled, slightly, with the movement. The bottle was supposedly child proof, but he was smart and he knew how to open it. He also knew that aspirin would thin his blood and irritate his stomach lining, and that taking enough of it would probably kill him. He’d seen it on the television once, and looked it up at the library, just to be sure.

He didn’t know if it would hurt, but he didn’t care. Even at ten years old, he was no stranger to pain. He knew that pain came in different forms. Some pain was only temporary. But, the pain that was in his chest, the hollow sadness, didn’t seem to want to leave him. That was why he knew that it was up to him to make it go away.

He could hear his Mother downstairs, doing the dishes. She was singing softly to herself. He knew that she was just trying to sound happy. He knew that if his Dad were here, that he would hear her singing and think she really was happy. But, the boy wasn’t fooled.

The boy looked down the stairs at the amber-colored light that was flooding up from the kitchen. He knew his Father would be gone for the next day, at least. So, this would be his only real opportunity to do what he planned to do. Part of him, albeit a very small part, felt sorry for his Mother. He didn’t want to leave her and he knew she would probably be sad when he was gone. But, he also knew that she hadn’t done anything to protect him. Maybe he wanted her to miss him, for that very reason. Maybe she should know how it felt to have that hollow pain in her chest, too.

"Goodbye Mommy." The boy whispered, even though he knew his Mother couldn’t hear him. She was too busy singing, pretending to be happy.

The boy turned around and headed back to the bathroom. He grabbed his metallic green cup off of the sink, the one he used when he brushed his teeth. He filled it up with water and sat down on the lid of the toilet. He opened the bottle and dumped a generous amount of it’s contents on the counter.

One by one he popped the pills into his mouth, stopping to take gulps of water. The aspirin was bitter, but he figured it was a small price to pay for the relief it would inevitably bring.

He counted the pills as he went, one...two...five...twenty. He figured twenty should be enough. He stood up and looked at himself in the mirror. He was skinny and awkward. Maybe if he looked long enough and hard enough, he could see what was wrong with him.

After a few minutes, he didn’t want to look anymore. It didn’t matter what was wrong with him, because he would never be able to fix it anyway. His stomach had begun to hurt, not a normal ache, like when he ate too much. It was like a burning, like he’d swallowed hot coals from his Dad’s barbeque. He grasped his tummy and groaned. Now he was wishing he’d just sat at the kitchen table and listened to his Mother pretending to be happy, instead.

He blinked his eyes and they got heavy. His arms seemed to be floating, and he didn’t feel a thing when his limp, little body landed on the bathroom floor with a soft thud.

He could hear them laughing, and he was hoping the next blow would render him unconscious. A boot kicked him in the stomach, sending shooting pain through his torso. Bruises on top of bruises on top of bruises, it didn’t matter anymore. He wondered if, this time, he might be fortunate enough to start bleeding internally. Slowly, the life would leak out of him and he’d be free. But, he was never that lucky.

The laughter and insults echoed around him, somewhere in the semi-darkness. He prayed they would just finish the beating and leave, and not do anything else.

Tonight, he didn’t think he could take anything else.

But, they’d brought duct tape, in case he tried to scream. They were thoroughly amused with themselves for their ingenuity, as if duct tape was such an original idea. They didn’t know that he had no intention of screaming. He didn’t know what the point of screaming would have been. No one ever came. No one was going to save him, not way down here, in the dark. In the dark, even God had forgotten him.

His eyes were still shut when he heard the sound of tape ripping. When he was dragged into a standing position and it was forced over his mouth, he didn’t resist.

When the guards grabbed him and threw him around, his mind went somewhere else. He remembered that night in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet lid, slowly feeding the aspirin into his mouth. He dreamed of the relief he’d hoped it would bring.

But, he’d woken up at the hospital on base, to see his Mother’s tear-stained face. She’d smiled, seeing her boy open up his eyes, at last. His Father’s face didn’t appear the least bit relieved, only irritated. The boy wished that he’d never opened his eyes, and now he couldn’t seem to close them tight enough to shut out the pain. The hollow feeling in his chest only got bigger and bigger, until, eventually, he was all hollow.

He left his body while it was being violated. He went somewhere deep inside and waited for the grabbing and forcing and pushing and pulling to end. Only when he felt himself being dropped to the concrete floor and heard the clang of the metal gate slamming shut, did he open his eyes. By then, it didn’t matter, because it was completely dark.

House’s eyes scanned Wilson’s face, shamefully, before darting back down towards the floor. He’d never actually asked before. During the months of his catatonia, it had been part of their routine. Now that he was actually totally conscious, actually asking...he was admitting that he needed it. He wasn’t sure if he could do that. What if Wilson laughed at him? What if he said ‘no’?

House's eyes were hopeful and sad. "Can we..?"

Wilson’s mouth quivered, at the edges. Two months had gone by since House’s had finally spoken, finally come alive after an eternity of silence. But, it had only been a minor step out of darkness. He was still so very damaged and so very afraid. Now, it was all the more painful, because he could speak of it.

House was still emaciated, not weighing more than 140 pounds, much too little for his 6 foot two inch frame. He waited, anxiously, for Wilson’s response before feeling safe enough to join him on the couch.

"Of course we can, Buddy. Of course..."

Wilson fought the tears that pricked his eyes, as his friend of so long literally climbed into his lap, like an orphaned child, pulling an afghan over them both.

House rested his head on Wilson’s chest, letting the sound of his heart beat soothe him. Wilson had wrapped his arms around him, one around his shoulders and the other slid underneath his knees. House seemed unbelievably content with Wilson cradling him, the free fingers of his right hand, gently tucking the loose hair behind House’s ears.

His thin, marled fingers, clasped at the front of Wilson’s shirt, wondering if his next request would be too much. He hoped not.

"Sing..."