A/N: IMPORTANT—Someone PM'd me yesterday, asking if I'd made changes to chapter one. Yup—but I'd added only one word, and changed one other. And just this morning, I added one line towards the end of "Blip." This is a work in progress, and I'm not a rough-draft kinda writer. I type it out, and that's pretty much it. However, each chapter isn't finished until what's on the paper reads just the way I'm hearing it in my head. So there will be minor changes until I can look up and see the scene playing out on my blank TV screen. When I can "watch" what I've written, I've met my self-imposed standards. A bit of a perfectionist, it's a curse. I'm sorry if it's confused anyone. Forgive me? mj

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Safety Net

"It's midnight, House; we're halfway through. You're doin' great. Vitals are stable, output's good. Got the oxygen down to 3 liters and you're maintaining a 97 sat. I'm running your fluids at 125cc an hour, and you're titrated to 45mg an hour on the morphine. No indications of any pain. Level of sedation is still at 3; sorry I keep disturbing you to check that, I know it's a pain in the ass, but that little scare a few hours ago, well—I'm just gonna have to keep disturbing you. Deal with it, okay?"

Wilson stands at the recliner looking down at House, and it appears to Cuddy as if he's actually expecting an answer from the unconscious man. She'd come in at the start of Wilson's report to House, and she'd listened quietly, a bit confused, but Wilson always had his reasons when it came to House, and those reasons were always sound.

Wilson nods his head at House, says "Keep up the good work," and turns to chart the results of his latest assessment. He smiles tiredly at Cuddy. "Be with you in just a sec, okay?" He seems not at all embarrassed to have been carrying on the one-sided conversation.

After a moment, he joins her over at the desk, where she's busied herself removing some styrofoam containers from a couple of take-out bags. He looks appreciatively at the large deli sandwich she's pushed across the desk towards him. "Mmm…looks good. Thanks." He takes a large bite of the sandwich. Around the mouthful of food, he says, "House is doing well."

"I know; I heard your report. You…um…do know he can't hear you, right?" She smiles, inviting him to share in the humor of holding a one-sided conversation.

"No, I don't know that; do you?" His tone is irritated, and Cuddy overlooks it—the man is exhausted, and under stress.

"Well," she says gently, "a sedation score of 3 pretty much tells me that he's not exactly going to be holding any meaningful, interactive conversations right now."

"But Cuddy, it doesn't tell you whether or not he hears me when I speak to him!" He gives her a look that's just short of accusing. "Last time he was in a similar situation, no one told him anything. He's a physician; he'd want to know all those things I told him. But beyond that, he's a human being. He's had to overcome a lot of distrust for this, and I promised him that there wouldn't be any nasty surprises. If he can understand what I'm saying to him, then I'm reinforcing his decision to trust us. If he can't understand the words, that's all right too—the tone of my voice lets him know that he's safe."

No wonder his patients love him, Cuddy thinks. "You're right; I'm sorry. I don't get to do too much at the bedside anymore; I guess I've forgotten some of the finer points. Or maybe I forgot that even House deserves a little empathy now and then—whether he wants it or not."

Wilson smiles at this. "You didn't forget; you wouldn't be here if you had. But part of the reason we are here is that he's been so damned good at convincing us that he doesn't want us to care. You believed it, and so did I, 'cuz it was just easier for all of us that way. I just can't allow that to happen again. We might not be able to turn it around next time."

"I know." She nods, remembering the statement he'd made to them about killing himself. She can tell from Wilson's face that he's remembering, too. After a minute, she asks him, "So what did you think when he talked about suicide?"

Wilson contemplates this a moment before answering. "I think he's given it a lot of thought. I think he was lying to us when he said he didn't have a plan. I think he has a plan, and that he's had one a long time. And I think that we're lucky, that we just barely managed to take it off the front burner, and move it back to safety-net status. Because that's what it is; he gets comfort, I think, in knowing that there's a way out if it all just gets too much." Wilson sighs, rubs a hand over his face, and continues.

"But we've gotta find a way to replace that net with something… healthier. I've been thinking…. We know that House would never agree to go the counseling route. So I've decided to do it for him. I'm gonna make an appointment with Dickinson, have a few sessions, work up a game plan."

He grins, says, "I'll bet it'll be the first time in Dickinson's career that someone's gonna come in talking about their hypothetical 'friend with a problem' where the 'friend' actually exists!"

Cuddy smiles too. "You don't think that ending the breakthrough pain will be enough to improve his state of mind? At least for a while?"

"Oh, I definitely think it'll help. But don't forget, we usually reserve this procedure for patients who are terminal, so we don't really have a good idea how long the improvement will last. And anyway, he was no great prize a year ago, before the breakthroughs started. It can't hurt to try and get some objective insight into how to handle him."

Cuddy looks impressed. "I just hope that someday House realizes what a good friend you are, how much you're willing to do for him."

"And I hope he doesn't realize it, not anytime soon, anyway." The IV pump beeps, and Wilson stands and goes over to the recliner, hangs a new bag of saline. "He wouldn't be comfortable with it, Cuddy. He wouldn't be able to allow himself to process it, not right now. Think about it; he can't accept acceptance—he feels he's not worthy of it. He's like the fat kid who cracks jokes about his own weight to beat others to the punch. He has to proclaim what a miserable excuse for a human being he is before anyone else proclaims it for him. That way, he can pretend that it doesn't hurt so much."

Wilson walks back to the desk. "And that's never gonna change, I don't think. It'll always be a part of who he is. I just have to accept that. Not in this for his gratitude, anyway."

"You don't need a psychologist for this, Wilson—you are a psychologist!" She smiles.

Wilson smiles too. "Yeah, well, House has given me a lot of on-the-job training."

He stands up, crumples the sandwich container and tosses it in the trash. "It's almost 1:00. Time for another assessment." He puts his hands to his lower back, stretches and yawns.

"This one's mine," Cuddy says. "The only thing you're gonna assess right now is the inside of your eyelids. Go lie down, I'll House-sit. And before you start, yes, Dr. Wilson, I remember all my care-and-feeding-of-House instructions. Got 'em memorized. Now go get some sleep, and don't you dare move for at least two hours. Got that?"

Wilson smiles gratefully; he's glad that Cuddy is the one sharing this responsibility with him. "Ya know," he says, "I'm not the only one who qualifies for 'good friend to House' status. And he'll never say it to you, either—so let me say it for him. Thanks, Cuddy."

Wilson falls asleep to the reassuring sound of Cuddy, having a warm, one-sided conversation with House.