A/N: To those who've previously read the contents of the voice file in 'AP,' I apologize for the repetition in this chapter. But I created it because it's vital to my own story, so it's gotta be here. Also, I'm sorry for the late post today; school is (mysteriously) closed; my wee one and I have had a day-long search for a plain red polo shirt which is apparently MANDATORY for his field trip tomorrow. Who'd have thunk one could waste six hours, and come up empty-handed? mjf (who's in big trouble with the kid)

CHAPTER TWELVE: Voices

As Wilson is heading back to House's room, Cuddy's just finished setting up the Tivo to record the all-important wrestling match. She motions him back into the kitchen.

"I listened to the voice file of your session with Dickinson yesterday," she says. "And you're right; there are some things we need to talk about. I was hoping that after House gets to sleep, we might have a chance to go over some of it? What do you think?"

"I think that the whole point of my taking the first shift is so you can get some rest," Wilson says. "If you wait for that insomniac to go down, the only one who'll get any real rest tonight will be him. And… I think there's something going on with him, anyway. I'm gonna try to talk to him about it. Don't know how far I'll get; I do know it'll take a while. He lists 'dissembling and deflecting' as hobbies on his curriculum vitae."

"Tell ya what," Cuddy says. "I'll rest until you're finished with him. If I fall asleep, wake me. We really need to discuss this, and soon. I'm confused about a few things."

Wilson concedes defeat; he'd known this was going to have to come up, sooner or later. "All right," he sighs. "I'll see what I can do."

When Wilson returns to the bedroom, House is waiting expectantly for him. "Meant to tell you, breakfast was really good this morning," House tells him.

Wilson raises his eyebrows. "Uh… House? I didn't make breakfast this morning. And you didn't eat breakfast this morning. Other than those things, though, thanks for the… umm… compliment?"

"Meant yesterday morning, anyway. The… uh… eggs? They were really good. And you did a great job cleaning up the kitchen."

Okay; that's it. Off the wall, even for House. Wilson looks closely at his friend; he's wondering if he needs to locate the thermometer. Or a straitjacket. "Are you dying?" he asks House. "Am I dying? What's with all the professions of appreciation all of a sudden?"

House scowls. "Just tryin' to tell you that it's… uh… rad. Really rad. What you've been doing. Everything. For… umm. Me."

Wilson tries very hard not to laugh. He almost succeeds in swallowing the laughter, but an amused smile must have found its way to his face.

"Are you laughing at me?" asks House, indignant. "Just trying to thank you, but if you don't want me to--"

Now the laughter escapes; Wilson can't help it. "Sorry, I'm just… punchy, I guess. You wanna thank me? Easy. Quit saying rad, okay? No one over the age of forty—hell, no one over thirty, should use that word. Stop, and we'll call it even." House is staring at him; Wilson just can't contain his laughter. "Really. Don't say it again, and we're even."

"I like that word," House grumbles. "Makes me sound hip." This statement, of course, only feeds Wilson's amusement. It's contagious; soon, House is laughing too, and relaxing. He's let Wilson know how he feels, and he hasn't had to suffer through any Hallmark Card moments to do it. And that's just… rad!

They talk, and laugh, a few minutes more, and when House closes his eyes he's genuinely content and comfortable. Wilson's decided he won't bring up House's enigmatic statements earlier; why ruin the mood? Looks as if House's sleep will be restful and dreamless tonight. Now all Wilson has to do is deal with Cuddy—and the voice file. He gently closes House's door behind him as he goes out to face her. No sense disturbing House.

Cuddy's still awake, of course, and waiting for him. She's set her laptop up on the coffee table. Wilson eyes it, and groans inwardly. Should've known I'd have to listen to it again. He arranges his face into a neutral, pleasant expression and sits beside her on the couch.

"Did you talk to him?" Cuddy asks.

"Well, sort of. Solved the mystery of his… sudden concern for my well-being. Seems he's been trying to thank me, tell me he appreciates what I'm doing." Wilson shakes his head in wonder; he's smiling again.

Cuddy's smiling too. "Oops. Should've warned you that was gonna happen, I guess. We had a little talk this morning. He was worried about you. Yelled at me because you were so worn out! And in typical House fashion, he'd come up with the perfect solution. He wanted to have himself admitted to the hospital." Cuddy watches Wilson's eyes widen in a mixture of dismay and amusement. "I figured that was a bit drastic, so I suggested that he try showing you a little gratitude instead. So, how'd it go?"

"It was… amusing. And touching, in a Twilight Zone sort of way. And we both lived through it," Wilson concludes, making a wry face.

"Glad to hear that; had my doubts." Cuddy watches Wilson lean his head back on the couch and rub his temples. "Listen, we don't have to do this tonight if you're too tired," she says, indicating the laptop.

"No, let's just get it done. You're right; it's important."

Cuddy starts the voice file, and for several minutes neither of them comments as they listen to Dickinson's questions, and Wilson's sometimes halting responses:

Dickinson: And how do you feel about what occurred?

Wilson: Why does that matter?

Dickinson: It matters because I don't think you'd be here if it hadn't affected you in some significant way.

Wilson: The way if affected me isn't important. What I did to House… that's what's important; that's why I'm here.

Dickinson: All right… then tell me what you did to Dr. House.

Wilson: I didn't… I allowed… I… I betrayed his trust. I let my own fear of his pain control how I reacted to it, to him. It was easier to fall back on prevailing medical beliefs, wrong beliefs, than it was to watch him hurt. So I convinced myself that he didn't hurt, that he was just… an addict. If the pain wasn't real, then I didn't need to worry about him, to… hurt for him. If I… if I'd allowed myself to believe that his pain was real, it would've… so I pulled back. I did what I had to do to protect myself. And he… he suffered for it….

Dickinson: And not wanting to watch someone we care about suffer is a natural reaction.

Wilson: But I'm not just his friend, I'm a doctor; I should've helped him. I didn't.

Dickinson: Yes, you did.

Wilson: You don't get it! I watched him suffer for months before I did anything! I watched him, and I was angry with him, and I pitied him. I thought he was weak, and I convinced myself that I was helping him by denying him pain relief. All I did was… I'm the… I'm responsible for his turning to morphine, for the breakthrough pain getting so out of hand that we had to….

Cuddy watches Wilson with eyes full of compassion as they both listen to his voice break on the recording, and wait through the silence that follows.

Dickinson: Let me get you some water. This is hard; take your time.

Wilson: Thanks. That's… better. I'm okay. Sorry, I didn't mean… this isn't supposed to be about me. I'm here for House; we need to focus on him.

Dickinson: Why did you decide to help him? When did you begin to believe that the pain was real?

Wilson: It was Friday. House is… well, he likes to complain, and he even makes a show of taking the Vicodin, and he's been known to… umm… well, actually, to terrorize people with that cane. (laughter) But one thing he never allows himself to do is to show his discomfort to others. Even with me; he'll gripe, he'll get… dramatic. But I've rarely seen evidence that the pain is real. Twice, maybe three times in the last six months. And he didn't have a choice. But Friday, he collapsed in front of his team. Dick, no exaggeration, House'd rather die than show physical weakness in front of those kids! So, when they paged me, and I found him on the floor of his office, with the three of them there… I knew. I… just knew, then. Couldn't deny it anymore; didn't even try. I gave him that first dose of morphine without even questioning the necessity. His need was just so clear… can I have some more water?

Dickinson: Of course. So… Friday was the first time that the validity of his pain wasn't in question? The severity of it, I mean.

Wilson: Yes… uh, no. There were… two other incidents. I was at his apartment one evening a couple of months ago. He'd been at the piano for quite a while. I was getting ready to leave, and he stood up, and his leg began to spasm. I thought at first that… it wasn't real; I'd refused to refill his Vicodin prescription earlier. The refill would've been only three days early, but… I thought… well, I was trying, I guess, to establish some… boundaries… on the whole narcotics thing, and….

Dickinson: Go on.

Wilson: And then, I saw his eyes, and I knew his pain was real. I went to him, and tried to get him to sit. He was angry, and he was scared, I think…. Finally, I had to force him to sit down. I checked his pulse, and it was over 100, and his respirations were rapid… shallow; he was suffering. He would've told me to leave at that point, if he'd been able to. I know that. But I knew he was in far too much pain to make any sort of protest, so I took advantage of that to help him. I massaged the leg until the spasm relaxed. He'd never have allowed that if he'd been in any shape to stop me. It… hurt, to know that he was suffering that much, and that I'd initially thought that he was trying to… trick me.

Dickinson: You felt guilty.

Wilson: Yeah… and sorry, too. But I couldn't make myself say that to him. So after the spasm ended, I sat there that night, watched him while he slept. I wanted him to know I cared. But I couldn't say those words, either. And every time he moaned during the night, it got a little harder for me to deny that he'd been truly suffering. But instead of trying to discuss it with him, figure out how I could really help, I… took the coward's way out. Before I left the next morning, I just wrote out the scrip. And we never spoke of what had happened….

Dickinson: And the second incident?

Wilson: It was… even worse….

There's a very long pause at this point in the recording, and Wilson feels Cuddy's eyes on him as they sit through the silence. But he won't look at her. He's relieved when he hears Dick speak again.

Dickinson: James, I'm sorry, but I could really use a break here, and some coffee. Would it be okay with you if we took a few minutes, just maybe catch up with each other, relax a little, before you go into the second incident?

Cuddy reaches over and shuts off the recording. "I think a break is a good idea," she tells Wilson. "I'm going to make us some tea."

Wilson nods, and stands to go check on House and hang the next TPN bag. When he returns, Cuddy's back on the couch, and two mugs of tea are on the table. He sits and takes an appreciative sip from his mug. Then he meets Cuddy's eyes. "I'm sure you have questions."

"No, no questions at this point," Cuddy tells him. "But I do have something to say, and I want you to really listen."

Wilson almost smiles; she's using her no-nonsense 'I'm the administrator; pay attention to what I'm saying' voice, and underlying that voice, he also hears the compassionate mother hen.

"I let House down too," she says. "You don't have a corner on that market. I gave the man a saline injection when he came to me asking, begging, for relief from his pain. I believed as you did, that he was an addict. And worse, I never insisted that he be fully evaluated. There's more than enough guilt to go around, so quit trying to hog all of it, okay?" She gives Wilson a small smile.

"I'm getting past that; I really am," he tells her. "But I appreciate your willingness to share it with me." He smiles back, and Cuddy resumes the recording while they sip their tea.

Dickinson: Okay, when we paused, you were going to tell me about the second time that you questioned your own belief that Dr. House was… uh… exaggerating his pain.

Wilson: I… this is hard. Do we have to discuss this one?

Dickinson: No; of course we don't. But you brought it up, and it's bothering you. It might help to—

Wilson: You're right. It's… yeah, it's important. I… it's just… I'm, uh… ashamed that this happened, I guess. It was just last month, and I'd stayed late at the hospital. Didn't know that House was still there, too. I was leaving, walking past his office, and a movement caught my eye. He'd drawn the blinds, but they weren't completely closed, and he had his back to me, so he didn't know I was there, and… he'd put his cane down, was trying to walk without it, and… he fell… twice. The second time, he just… stayed down. And he leaned his head against the edge of a chair, and he was… his eyes were closed, and there were… tears. He could've seen me then, if he'd looked, but he was so consumed by his pain, I don't think he was aware of his surroundings. And I… walked away. Just pretended it never happened. Called him later; he sounded okay. I was able to forget what I'd seen, until Friday. When I got the page about his collapse, as I was running to his office, that scene just kept… replaying itself, in my mind. And now I see it as another missed opportunity to prevent what happened Friday.

Dickinson: And you can't let it go.

Wilson: I don't want to let it go. I want to remember what my denial did to my best friend, to the man I think of as my brother. And now, he's just getting to the point of being able to trust me again, and maybe even to trust a friend of ours, our boss. But this morning, he just missed hypovolemic shock. And I mean by minutes. Know why? He didn't want me to know he's been nauseated; he was afraid I'd cut the dose on his pain meds, was afraid I'd insist on an anti-emetic. He's trying, I really think he is, but he's not there yet. We need to figure out a way to get 'im there, fast, before his distrust kills him!

Cuddy pauses the recording again. "Remember," she says gently to Wilson. "I did the same thing to him, after his surgery. I walked away from his suffering, from his emotions. I understand why you did what you did that night. It doesn't make either of us right, but it does confirm that we're human. And we're trying our hardest to make it up to him now; I believe that counts for something. Apparently, he does, too."

Wilson smiles; Cuddy's right. Hard, insensitive, unfeeling House has forgiven, has trusted, has shown gratitude—in his own unique way, of course. Wilson nods at Cuddy, and she resumes play on the file.

Cuddy and Wilson both listen intently as Dickinson explains how—and why—House can't just accept help, has to actually fight it. While he listens, Wilson relives sitting in Dick's office, hearing this for the first time. He remembers the relief he'd felt, finding out that House's behavior wasn't really something House could control, and the overwhelming compassion he'd experienced for his friend when Dick confirmed, "He's literally programmed to fight you."

As they listen to Dick ask about House's support system, and Wilson's, Wilson sends Cuddy a look of grateful acknowledgement as his voice on the recording mentions only her name. Cuddy smiles back at him, says warmly, "We really are House's self-created family, aren't we?" And the voice file continues playing.

Wilson: I can handle this, Dick. It's... a relief to know that he's not just the selfish bastard the rest of the world sees. I know that the man I've described to you sounds... sad, and sick, not someone anyone would want to know, but there's so much more to him. He's brilliant, and funny, and... I dunno, it's just an honor to be allowed into his world. Can't explain it; you'd have to meet him, and look past the walls he puts up. Maybe then you'd understand why he's really worth it. When he allowed me to put him through the pain control procedure, even after what's gone on, it was... it made me feel good, like I was somehow worthy of his friendship. After what my inaction had done to him, now I've been able to do something for him, to make things better, to actually ease a lot of his pain.

Dickinson: That's another thing we need to talk about, James—the loss of that extra pain. It's going to be part of the problem, believe it or not. You've said that he's integrated this pain into his personality, his behavior. That means that a big part of his perception of himself disappeared when the pain left. And whenever your self-view changes, there's a period of grieving attached, even if the event itself is a positive one. He's going to find it disconcerting, at the least, and deeply disturbing at the worst, to have such a large part of his identity gone. And that'll result in more anger, more lashing out, while he tries to come to terms with this shift in self-perception. It shouldn't last more than a month or so—but it has the potential to be a very nasty time.

Cuddy stops the recording at this point; when she looks at Wilson, her confusion is evident. "What happened when you had this conversation with him? You haven't mentioned it, and Dr. Dickinson makes it sound pretty important. Vital to his recovery. I'd really like to know how House reacted."

Wilson looks away. "You haven't heard about it because it hasn't happened. Initially, there didn't seem to be a need to discuss changes in self-perception with him because it didn't appear that his self-view had changed. And now…. Well, Dick brought it up again today, but with the new pain problems, House can't really be grieving for the loss of the old ones, can he?"

Cuddy frowns. "It sounds like something that has to be talked about. And you're avoiding it, aren't you?"

"Just don't wanna go borrowing trouble. When he's stronger, when we know what's going on with the left thigh, I'll talk with him. Promise."

Cuddy looks doubtful, but restarts the voice file.

Wilson: How can I help him through these changes?

Dickinson: I think you're already doing that for him, by instinct. Just be there for him. Let him lash out at you; that'll be his way of working through his own confusion. The 'attacks' on you aren't really attacks; I think what he's doing is analyzing the changes in his life in a way that has, historically, made him feel safest. He sees you as a secure sounding board, and that's what he needs most right now. It'll only become a problem if he denies, to himself, that things have changed.

Cuddy pauses the file. "But he hasn't really lashed out," she says.

"That's why it hasn't been necessary to talk to him about the changes; that's what I was trying to explain."

The voice file resumes, and they listen as Wilson tells Dick his fears that House may be suicidal. Cuddy is as relieved as Wilson had been to hear that House's risk of suicide isn't high, and that although they suspect he may have a plan, that plan may, in fact, be keeping him safer than he might otherwise be.

The session is ending. Cuddy smiles when Dickinson and Wilson mention a poker game with House, and says to Wilson, "I want in on that one!"

Both Wilson and Cuddy grow somber when they listen to Dickinson ask, at the end of the session, what Wilson is getting out of this, and Wilson answers him quietly, "This time, I don't lose my brother."

The phrase echoes in both their minds as Cuddy shuts off the recording. She reaches out and gently squeezes Wilson's hand; she sees that he's lost in thought.

Wilson is remembering what he hadn't said to Dick at the close of their session; 'and this time, the demons don't win'. He closes his eyes at the memory, and makes a silent promise to House. We've come this far; doesn't matter what this new demon is, doesn't matter how strong, or how frightening, it turns out to be. We'll face it together. And we'll win.