A/N: There's a line in this scene that those of you who've read the recaps of the Actor's Studio HL interview will recognize immediately. I had to borrow it; it just so belongs here.

With thanks (and birthday wishes) to HL, although Wilson is the one who says it here.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Trust

Wilson waits an hour; he's spoken with Cuddy, and she's got everything arranged. They should be able to begin no later than noon. This way, if all goes according to plan, he'll get House out of here late tomorrow afternoon. A full day at home Monday, and he'll be able to return to work Tuesday. Sounds real good—now all I've gotta do is get House to agree to be utterly vulnerable, powerless, and unaware. 'Oh yeah, and House, one more thing; this would really be easier if you'd just put those little trust issues aside too.' He shakes his head. Yeah, Wilson, and tomorrow, he'll be begging for clinic duty, too; this is so not gonna fly.

Finally, he decides to just wing it, speak to House's knowledge of medicine and his uncanny grasp of scientific logic. That'd sell him on the procedural part. For the emotional aspects, Wilson has an angle—the truth, plain and unembellished. And painful and risky. But finally, comforting. Wilson believes, strongly, that there is comfort to be found in even the hardest truths. Everybody lies. "Not this time, House. I'm gonna have to count on your keen diagnostic skills to see the truth this time around."

He walks over to House, who's made good use of the hour; he's been sleeping undisturbed, actually appears peaceful to the untrained eye. Wilson almost wishes he weren't so well trained and could pretend not to see the quivering, involuntary tremors in the right thigh; it looks as if there's a fan blowing lightly over him, gently ruffling the sheet over his leg.

As Wilson reaches out to wake House and begin what he hopes is the most persuasive argument of his life, he hears Cuddy's key in the door. She wheels in a small supply cart, overflowing with all the items Wilson's requested. She removes its drape so Wilson can check it. "Hospice is sending the morphine over now," she says. "I told them to deliver it to your office. I'll bring it in when it arrives. I ordered some Narcan too, in case you need to bring him out of it." She looks at House, then back at Wilson. "You haven't spoken with him, I take it?"

"Not yet. How'd ya know?"

"I haven't received any complaints of excessive noise from two floors down yet. Dead giveaway." She wheels the cart over to the side of the room, out of House's line of vision, and says, "I pity the acting administrator when inventory week arrives and all this stuff's gone missing." When Wilson shoots her an alarmed look, she says, "I'm gonna make sure I plan my vacation for around that time." She cocks her head at him. "Maybe I'll appoint you to do it…poetic justice…." She laughs when Wilson sticks his tongue out at her.

She looks again at House, then back to Wilson. "You can do this. Get it over with; it might not be as bad as you think." They share an amused look at the patent absurdity of that statement, and she says, "Look, you convinced me. Yesterday, I would never have believed that you could pull a 'House' better than House himself and today I'm along for the ride. Miracles happen. Make another miracle." She gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Call me when the fireworks are over," she teases as she leaves.

Wilson takes a deep breath, then another. He sends up a quick prayer. And then, "House, can you wake up a minute? House?"

----

Wilson has presented all the medical aspects of his plan. He's done it clinically, factually.

House has listened patiently, not interrupting at all. That's a good sign…isn't it? thinks Wilson. And then House looks at Wilson and his eyes are blank, unreadable for once.

"No," House says flatly. "Thanks for the lesson. But no. Not a snowball's chance in hell, in fact. Pardon the reference."

Okay, time to bring out the big guns. "House, listen. Obviously, I think this is the best thing for you, in my professional opinion. But beyond that, well, it's like this. You've been telling me for a long time that things were going downhill. And I blew you off because I couldn't deal with it." He sighs. "Selfish, I know. So you were forced to deal with it alone. You don't have to deal with it alone anymore. I'm listening to you now; so's Cuddy."

House gazes at some faraway spot on the wall. "But I'm not talking anymore. Failed 'shares warm fuzzy feelings' in kindergarten, ya know."

Here we go. "House, I have no right to ask this. My guilt isn't your problem. But I'm having a hard time living with myself right now. The only thing that's gonna change that is maybe being able to help you. I….I guess what I'm trying to say is, I need to do this for you. I need you to trust me again." He smiles ruefully. "Pitiful, yeah. But there it is."

House's eyes are still blank, still pinned to that spot on the wall. "While all this is very interesting—touching, even—I'm not your confessor. Go find a priest, a rabbi…just leave me out of it." When he stops talking, his words hang cruelly in the air for several moments.

Wilson's hurt has grown so large it's a presence in the room with them. He hates himself for that. He's not gonna do it. I've failed; I've failed him. Again. When he speaks, his voice is resigned, and he's speaking more to himself now than to House. "I didn't deserve to even ask…I'd hoped…believed…you don't deserve to suffer, House. I turned a blind eye to your suffering…no compassion there, huh?...so sorry…guess I need to rethink the whole empathy thing…guess I lost it somewhere between too many patients and not wanting to believe how much you were hurting…but you were the one who paid…probably my patients did too…."

"Okay."

"Huh?" Wilson is startled from his sad reverie. House is looking at him now.

"Okay," House repeats. "I'll do it. But it's not for you. On the off chance that I do have a soul in here somewhere, I don't wanna be responsible for all those cancer kiddies losing Dr. Compassion, not on my account. So I'll do it. Don't make me repeat it again; I might change my answer."

Wilson knows he needs to cover his shock, even his happiness. Yeah, wrapping him in a big warm hug and thanking him profusely would just get me tossed over the balcony anyway. So he slips into the role of practical physician. "Good, then. We'll get set up. When the morphine arrives, we'll be able to get started." He sees that House's eyes have followed his to the supply cart. Damn, I meant to cover that stuff.

House's baleful glare at the catheter kit is so comically pitiful that Wilson can't help but laugh sympathetically. "Don't worry about that. I'll take care of it once you're out. Not that torturing you doesn't have its appeal, but even I think your body's been doing a bang-up job of that already."

House eyes him, the traces of months of utter frustration written on his face. "Nah, gee, ya think?" he asks sarcastically, but there's a little humor in there too.

Wilson decides there's no time like the present for having one more honest conversation. So yeah, I'm a masochist, let's just get all this truth stuff over at once.

"House, I gotta tell you something. There was one more part of your hallucination that wasn't...hallucinatory. That part about someone praying? That would be…me. I...um...stopped in the chapel on my way back in, and I...uh...had a little talk. With God. Okay, intellectually we know it's a coincidence that I should do what I did, when I did, but you gotta admit, the timing's kinda freaky, House."

"You talked to the big Dog about me? Jimmy, I'm touched! Way cool! What'd He have to say?"

Wilson cocks an amused eyebrow at him. "He said to tell you 'no hard feelings.' Said you'd understand."

House stares at him for a minute--and then he laughs. And he keeps laughing, seemingly unable to control his mirth. Finally, he tries to regain control. "I had this awesome deal, and I should've known--" he interrupts himself with more laughter. "Cameron, I could've believed. Even Father Chase. But you!" More wild laughter, and now it's verging on hysteria. Wilson leans over and raises the oxygen flow. "I had this sweet deal, and my best friend screws it up 'cuz he's worried about my soul..." he gasps.The laughter is starting to die down, finally.

Wilson waits patiently for House to catch his breath, but it takes a while, because he's still laughing at intervals. When Wilson is pretty certain he's finished, he looks curiously at House. "Would you have really done that? I mean, if it had all been for real? Would you have sold your soul? Is it that bad?"

House grows instantly quiet, contemplative. "Yeah, it's that bad. There are hours--days, even--when I'd do just about anything for relief." He looks hard at Wilson, needs to make certain he really gets it now. "You know that." Wilson acknowledges the truth of the statement with a regretful nod. "But...no, I wouldn't do that. I found something out, Jimmy. It's really weird, but...I found out it's better not to know. If you're reminded what 'normal' is, it hurts bad when they take it away again. You can't really miss what you don't remember."

The two friends sit in silence for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts. Then House reaches out, grasps Wilson's wrist. "I'm trusting you," he says, and there is something like wonder in his voice. He'd never expected--he'd never wanted--to trust again.

This is not the time for banter, and it's not the time to allow House to scurry back behind his walls. Wilson looks at him and this time, this one time, he allows all his love and loyalty for his very complex friend to shine in his eyes. He covers House's hand with his own and says simply, "I'll keep you safe."