Title: Gospel of Judas
Author: Ellie
Rating: PG
Post "Finding Judas", speculation based on promos for 3x10
Summary: "That’s what Tritter wants from him, a betrayal, but
that’s now how it felt."

***

While it saddened him to see what damage House had wrought
with Cuddy, he’d known Cuddy long enough to know that she
would pull herself back together and go back to trying, trying,
trying to help all of them. When Chase had stalked into the
lounge, frustrated and bruised, he knew something had to be
done before the young man tendered his resignation. It couldn’t
go on like this, not for any of them.

His own footsteps seemed loud in the deserted hallway, heavier
with the weight of his guilt. The bastard had the nerve to look
smug when he walked in the door, as if he knew one of them
would break.

"I’ll need thirty pieces of silver," he heard himself saying.
That’s what Tritter wanted from him, a betrayal, but that’s not
how it felt. It felt more like seppuku, falling on his sword to save
House, salvage everyone’s honor, and careers. Here, now, he can
do what no one else can, end it for them all, put their lives right
again.

"What else do you want, Dr. Wilson?" Tritter asked, dryly,
appraising, with the faintest hint of a satisfied smile.

With some reluctance, he settled into the chair across from the
detective, buying himself some time to think. "I don’t want
anyone to go to jail. How can we make that happen?" He’s
worked with dying patients long enough to know how bargaining
worked.

Tritter looked smug then, almost gleeful that someone had finally
caved to the pressure, and all Wilson could think was that he’s
never seen even House so happy to have broken people down.
"I’m not so sure that can happen. There’s a lot of incriminating
evidence against the good doctor. Against you."

Wilson bit his tongue to keep from saying what he knows will
only make things worse, that House is far worse now for
Tritter’s interference and lack of proper pain management.
Pondering that for a moment, he asked, "No judge or jury’s
going to send a cripple to jail for taking painkillers. What if we
get him into treatment?" Even as the words leave his lips, he
knows that even if it gets Tritter off their backs, it won’t work,
the way a week’s detox and ketamine treatment haven’t.

"You’d put him into a program of my choosing?"

"No," he said, too quickly, all the while knowing he’s bought
himself a bit more leverage. Drawing out the query, he offered,
"A program of our Dean of Medicine’s choosing." While he’s
gambling, he’s chosen to wager large, knowing Cuddy’s got to
want this, too, will be willing to make the deal, anything that will
end this.

"You think you should get off with nothing? For all the
prescriptions you did write him? Indulging him all this time?"

"Isn’t that how making a deal normally works?" He’s watched
enough movies to believe that was how it worked, that it would be
this easy.

Tritter doesn’t seem to think it should be. The look on his face
indicated that they should all twist in the wind a while longer.
"That would work out well for all of you, wouldn’t it?"

"It would end things quietly. You’d get some vengeance on Dr.
House, this would all disappear before anyone raises a peep
about a cop spending his vacation picking on a successful and
respected diagnostician." Wilson knew it was now or never to
play hardball, hoped he sold it enough. He knew it was not his
strong suit.

Ignoring the latter part of his comments, Tritter simply asked,
"You can get him to agree to it?"

"Of course," he says, not sure at all, just sure that something
had to give.

"Talk to your Dean. Take a little vacation for yourself, think
about what you’ve done. I’ll be back on Monday to iron out the
details." Tritter leaned back in his chair, arms against his chest,
dismissing him.

Wilson nodded stiffly, then left the room feeling so much lighter.
Relieved, in fact, as he walked into Cuddy’s office, where she
was still hard at work over a mountain of papers. She looked up
at him with worried, exhausted eyes as he sat down across the
desk from her. "I talked to Tritter."

Silence fell heavily, the sound of her pen falling to the blotter a
loud thud in the room. Eventually, she said, "I see." It was
clear she didn’t.

"Something had to give. Someone had to give. I take some time
off, House spends some time in rehab, and it all disappears."

Cuddy leaned back in her chair. "That seems too easy."

"Meaningless, too, as he’ll be detoxed before we get him
anywhere, and he’ll still be in pain. But it will make this go
away."

"And you’re expected to go away, too?"

"Just for a while. I’ve got some vacation time I haven’t used. I
hear that St. Barth’s is nice this time of year."

"It’s gorgeous. No tourists," she said, with a faint smile.

"Will he agree to rehab?"

"I haven’t talked to him."

She shook her head. "How can you have not talked to him
before doing this?"

"I didn’t want him to talk me out of it."

There’s no obvious answer for her to give, so she doesn’t.
"Where do they expect him to go?"

"I asked that it be your decision, not Tritter’s."

"Small blessings, I guess," she said. "I’ll make some calls and
let you know what I can work out tomorrow."

He rises and heads for the door, not knowing what else to say.
At the door, he turns back to her. "Thanks, Cuddy."

"You know he’s going to be angry at you."

With a shake of his head, he responded, "For about ten seconds.
He’ll never admit it, but he knows as well as we do that it needed
to be done."

Cuddy’s mouth drew into that thin, tight line that’s too sad and
taut for a smile, just an acknowledgement. "Thank you,
Wilson."

He walked out into the dimmed hospital with the assurance that
he’d done the right thing, the necessary thing, the heroic thing.
But the consequences were going to be hell.

****
End
****