EULOGY: Part Two
When Wilson arrives that evening and lets himself in, he notices that the pizza's already arrived and "General Hospital" is playing. "Be right there," House calls from the kitchen.
In just a minute, House enters, carrying two open beers. "Show's half over. Let's eat." They sit in an almost companionable silence until the program ends. House turns off the television and turns to face Wilson. House's face is serious; it's clear he's through playing games. "They're not working anymore. Not at the therapeutic dose. Not at… double... the therapeutic dose," he says.
"There are other things to try, House. Lots of other things. Stronger meds, PT maybe, counseling." He doesn't mention the surgery that would end the problem; that's not an option in either of their minds.
"You still think it's all in my head. It isn't."
Wilson remembers the eulogy, remembers that it had served its purpose—the message had gotten through. He wouldn't be here sitting on House's couch right now if it hadn't. And if the message had gotten through, then he had to trust him; he had to believe that House was telling the truth. Finally, he says, "I believe you," and sees the relief in House's eyes.
"The stronger meds, then," he tells House. "Vicodin is comparatively mild. We could bump you up, find something that works."
"It'll only work for a while." House sighs, and Wilson hears the discouragement and the frustration.
"And then we move up again. This isn't insurmountable; I'll do some research, we'll figure it out together. But you've gotta quit pouring what's become useless poison down your throat. There is something out there that'll work. And we'll find it."
House grows quiet, and Wilson allows him the time to think. For several minutes, there's no sound in the room.
"I don't like 'em, you know—the pills. You all seem to think I enjoy them, get some sorta high off them."
"You put on a pretty good show." Wilson smiles to let House know he's trying hard to understand.
"What would you do?" House asks, still serious. "In my place, what would you do?"
Wilson considers it. Finally, he says quietly, "I'd put on a pretty good show." He meets House's eyes with an apology in his own.
"S'okay. Knew you'd see it my way, eventually. Took longer than I thought, but you came through in the end. Always do." This last sentence is said very quietly, but Wilson takes it for the unspoken thanks that it's meant to be.
"I'll start work on this in the morning, House. Not gonna stop 'til we solve it. Count on it." They lock eyes briefly, acknowledging their solidarity. Always.
"Hey, Jimmy—you mean all that cool stuff you wrote?" House grins slyly.
"Nope. Not a word," he replies, deadpan. Then he smiles back at his living, breathing, hoping, best friend.