CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Truth

Shortly after 11:00am, Wilson awakens to the scents of fresh coffee and bacon. House is still sleeping, so Wilson slips quietly out of the room, leaving the door ajar so they'll hear him if he calls.

He heads toward the wonderful smells, and finds Cuddy in the kitchen, mixing up pancake batter—and humming. She's dressed in clean clothing—Wilson tries to remember if he's ever seen her in jeans before—and must have also taken a shower; her hair is in damp ringlets around her face.

"How can you possibly look that good on no sleep?" he asks her, smiling. He himself actually feels more rested than he's felt since the first night home.

She smiles back. "By my calculations, I managed to get almost four hours; that's more than you've been getting some nights. Oh, and that reminds me--" She retrieves an amber pill bottle from her purse. It has Wilson's name on the label. "These are the 1mg Ativan I brought that first night. Next trip over, I'll bring some 0.5 tabs, but in the meantime you can halve one of these and get started."

Wilson makes a face at her, groans and takes the bottle. "I was hoping you'd forget about that. I'll do it later; I just got up, I feel plenty rested."

Cuddy fixes him with a no-nonsense glare as her hands inevitably find their way to her hips. She stares him down until, finally, he sighs in resignation, uncaps the bottle and fishes out a pill.

Wilson cuts the pill in half and tosses the unneeded portion back into the bottle. He puts the other half in his mouth, cups his hand under the faucet, and swallows the pill, gulping water from his hand. Then he rolls his eyes at Cuddy. "Happy now?"

Cuddy's been watching the whole thing with interest. Now she asks, "Aren't either of you capable of swallowing pills in the traditional way? You know, a cup, eight ounces of water, that whole thing."

"Real men swallow 'em dry," House says, entering on his cane. The IV pole is providing support on his left side; he appears to be walking well. "Ibuprofen? Wrist still hurting?"

A quick glance to his left shows Wilson that Cuddy's leaning against the counter where he'd left the bottle of lorazepam; it's not in view. He doesn't answer House's first question. "Just a little achy today; it's doing fine. Uh… where's your chair?"

"It's not my chair, and I suppose it's wherever you two left it last night when you conspired to make me eat my supper in bed."

"It's in the living room," Cuddy says. "Why don't you gentlemen go on in there, and I'll get breakfast together."

Wilson watches House execute the turn without difficulty, watches his gait as he follows him to the living room. "You're doing pretty well, there. How's the left leg feeling?"

"It was starting to tighten up; think that's what woke me. Thought I'd try and walk it out," House says as he lowers himself to the couch.

Wilson's aghast. "You thought it might spasm and you got up by yourself anyway? Damn it, House! We thought you were sleeping. What if it had spasmed?" Wilson doesn't know if he's angry, or scared. He does know he's upset; he's pacing and shouting and gesturing. "Don't ever do that again! What the hell were you thinking?"

Wilson's aware that he's overreacting, and some part of him is already sorry. But he can't stop himself. "If you'd fallen, we might not have known. You enjoying this, buddy? A little game for you? 'Let's see what I can do today to freak 'em out!' That it?" He glares at House. "I said, is that it?" His tone is demanding.

When House doesn't answer, Wilson really takes a good look at his face; he's immediately ashamed of himself and his uncontrolled outburst. House doesn't look angry, or hurt, nor even defensive; he just looks sad, even… concerned. What's the matter with me? Wilson thinks. I blew up at Cuddy yesterday, and now House.

Wilson turns away from House's sadness—and finds himself looking straight at Cuddy. Apparently, she'd heard the commotion, and come out to check. And now, she's looking at him with the same mixture of concern and sadness that he sees in House's face; she's clearly heard most—if not all—of his tirade. Wilson looks from Cuddy to House, and he makes a decision; he hopes it's the right one.

"Uh… gimme a minute. Please?" he says to both of them. They nod, wordlessly, and he goes into the kitchen. As soon as he's out of the room, he can hear them resume speaking. Their voices are low and worried—and he doesn't blame them.

When Wilson returns, they immediately stop talking and turn to him. Cuddy's surprised to see that he's holding the Ativan bottle. House merely looks curious. Wilson takes a deep breath, says to Cuddy, "You were right." He indicates the bottle he's holding. "I apologize; shouldn't have doubted you. That first one's starting to kick in; gotta admit, it's a little easier to think now. Uhh… thanks for knowing what I needed when I… uh… didn't."

Cuddy regards him kindly. "Not a problem. Believe it or not, I really do understand. I just want to help." Her tone is warm, forgiving—accepting.

That was easier than I thought, Wilson thinks. But I haven't hurt her the way I've hurt House. I owe him so much more than just an apology. And I can't blame 'im if he doesn't understand, doesn't want to forgive me. Now he turns to House.

"Need to talk to you, too, if you're willing to hear me out," Wilson says to him.

Cuddy says, "I'm gonna get back to fixing breakfast—which is gonna be lunch if we don't get to it soon."

"No, you can stay," Wilson says to her. "It's a… family matter. You have every right to be here."

Cuddy shakes her head. "This is between the two of you. You can handle it," she says, smiling reassuringly at Wilson. "And you know where I am if you need me." And she leaves the two men to face each other.

Wilson walks over to the couch and hands the pill bottle to House, who studies the label a moment before handing it back.

"No snide comments?" Wilson asks. He realizes that he's nervous about this talk; he's tossing the bottle hand to hand, and he's not meeting House's eyes. He sighs and sets the bottle down, tries to look at House.

"Sit down," House directs, then waits patiently for Wilson to comply. Finally, Wilson sits uncomfortably on the edge of the couch and turns to face his friend.

"First this," he says, indicating the medication. "That nightmare I had last night. I called Dickinson, and he and Cuddy decided it would be a good idea, for a while. I… uh… disagreed. And then Cuddy threatened to tell you that I'm not handling all this well, and I… felt… trapped. She knew I'd have to agree; wouldn't risk upsetting you. And even though I knew she was right, I didn't like being… coerced. Realized afterwards, that's what I've been doing to you all along. Like the morphine last night; it wasn't fair." Now he looks House in the eye. "I'm sorry. I was wrong to do that to you."

House studies him thoughtfully before responding. "Was Cuddy wrong to do it to you?"

"No. Wouldnt've… cooperated… any other way, I'm afraid." Wilson looks down, ruefully.

"Yet now you're telling me about it. So you've either gotten over your fear of upsetting me, or you've decided I can handle it. Which?"

"I don't really know," Wilson answers earnestly. "Guess I'm still afraid it'll upset you, but… I've decided it's not right to just expect you to trust me blindly, and not be willing to do the same for you. So I'm gonna have to believe that you'll still believe I'm capable of caring for you, and making the right decisions about your treatment."

House carefully props both legs up on the coffee table and leans back on the couch, pillowing his head on his interlaced fingers. "Last night? My nightmare? It was a rerun. Been seein' it a lot, lately. You tell me I've got my identity wrapped up in the leg, the pain. That I've redefined everything. You keep hammering away about that. By the end of it, I'm ready to punch you out. Always wake up before I hit you, though." House sighs. "Last night, just barely made it," he tells the ceiling.

"At least yours is understandable," Wilson says. "You had to work pretty hard to convince me about the pain; stands to reason you'd still have some doubts. I do believe you, though. Just sorry it took me so long, sorry there's still some question in your mind."

"Gettin' over it. Want to get over it. Can't trust you, who can I trust?" House has asked this question of a particularly fascinating spot on the ceiling; Wilson understands.

"Anyway," he says to House, "I'm, uh… not ready to tell you about the rest of my little experience with the night demons yet. I know that's not fair, but… well, I still haven't processed it myself. When I am ready, I'll let you know, okay?"

House nods, and Wilson thinks for a moment that he's going to leave it alone. But then House says, "Must've been pretty bad if it made you call the shrink," and Wilson can hear the fascinated curiosity in the statement.

"It was… a frightening experience. Upsetting," he says honestly. "And I… I'm asking you to respect that I can't go into it, not just yet. But… part of it was… feeling like I was the only one available to help you, to… save you. That's not true, I know, but… well, Cuddy and Dickinson think I've, uh… been putting too much pressure on myself, think I could use a little chemical help for a while."

"They're right," House says, without hesitation. Now he looks at Wilson. "Trust your doctors. Don't give 'em a rough time. Just makes it harder on 'em. Look what I've done to my doctor," he says, a small smile on his face as he indicates the tranquilizers.

"And one more thing about those pills," House continues; now his tone is serious. "You be careful with 'em; they're addictive, ya know. 'Specially if you're just takin' them for fun."

Wilson turns to stare, open-mouthed, at House—and then he sees the wry smile, and the mischievous twinkle in his eye, and the forgiveness. And Wilson smiles back, and nods in acknowledgement of the treacherous waters they've just crossed together.

Cuddy picks this moment to enter with the breakfast tray, and looking at the smile on her face—relieved and triumphant—both men know that her uncanny timing is no coincidence, as the three of them dig into their delayed breakfast. And even the arrival of the lab courier, the resulting hurried blood draw, and House's complaints about the lack of macadamia nuts in his pancakes, are all forgotten about as they simply enjoy each other's company.