CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Disbelief

"House." Wilson stands in shock, staring at the figure on the couch—and House stares back, as a brief, wordless communication passes between the two men who know each other so well.

How much did you hear?

All of it.

"We… uh… obviously, we need to talk," Wilson manages to choke out.

"No, we don't," House states flatly. "All you need to know is that your shrink is right; you have nothing to feel guilty about."

"I… don't?" Wilson feels suddenly inarticulate, and curses his inability to form a clear thought.

"He's right because you're wrong. You can't feel guilty over a diagnosis that's incorrect. We won't have a diagnosis until after we do the muscle biopsy. Until then, the DDX is over; we won't be discussing it again until we have the results." House looks away from Wilson and takes a deep breath, composes his face. When he looks back, and speaks again, the coldness is gone from his eyes, the flatness from his tone.

"So, what's for breakfast? You were running the damned water in there for so long, I was beginning to think the kitchen was flooding. Tell me you were working on some complicated new pancake recipe; I'm starved!"

"Uh… I'll see what I can find. Glad you're feeling better. Let me get your meds, and then I'll see about breakfast. And then after we eat, we… umm… we can talk then."

"Yeah, maybe we can discuss the lunch menu!" House says heartily. "I was thinking maybe that weird salad you make, you know, the one without lettuce? Now whoever heard of a salad without lettuce?" House smiles and shakes his head.

Wilson doesn't know what to do. He'd been prepared for angry disbelief, not for this calm, complete denial. So he decides to just play it House's way for now, until he can figure out how to bring it up again. "Sure," he says, with an answering smile. "The lettuce-less salad sounds fine. But first, let me scrounge you up a pancake or two before we start worrying about lunch."

"Sounds fair," House says, lifting his legs carefully onto the couch, and grabbing the TV remote. There's a knock at the door as House begins to flip through the channels.

Wilson lets Cuddy in. Quickly, he whispers to her, "He knows. Overheard the voice file this morning. Refuses to discuss it."

Cuddy's eyes widen and she starts to ask a question. Wilson shakes his head at her and mouths 'later.' So she sets her purse down and walks over to say good morning to House, while Wilson continues on into the kitchen.

But Wilson turns around and listens—as House obviously intends for him to do—when he hears House whisper a little too loudly, in a conspiratorial tone, "Hey, Cuddy; you can't leave me alone with him! He thinks I'm crazy." House accompanies the statement with the universal gesture of insanity; his finger makes an exaggerated circle at the side of his head, as he looks, almost challengingly, at Wilson.

Intuitively, Wilson knows that this is House's way of telling him that he hasn't completely rejected the new diagnosis, that it's up there somewhere in that brilliant mind, just perking around. House had been the one to declare the subject closed, but apparently there's a clause in the rules; House is to be allowed to joke about it. If that's what it takes for you to accept the idea, Wilson thinks, I'll be more than happy to be your fall guy; make all the jokes you want.

So Wilson puts his hands on his hips, shakes his head slowly, and says chidingly, "House, you're playin' dirty, ya know." And he makes absolutely no attempt at all to keep either the humor or the affection out of his voice. He heads off to the kitchen feeling real optimism.

Wilson's well aware that the worst of the trouble is yet to come—but for the first time since last night, he's starting to believe that they'll get through it, with their newly-formed little family intact.

Yeah, I know there's gonna be fireworks. Big, bad fireworks. But I'm beginning to think that when the explosions are over and the sparks die down, he's gonna let me be there to catch him. And Cuddy. That woman'll catch us both; she's amazing.

Wilson stands in the kitchen a moment, trying to memorize this moment of hope, to fix it firmly in his mind; he knows that he'll need to recall this feeling during the days and weeks to come, that it'll help pull him through, so that he can pull House through. Then he takes a deep breath, pours coffee for House and Cuddy, and returns to the living room.

Cuddy's just finished drawing the blood for morning labs, and is trying, in vain, to conduct a proper assessment. House is giving Cuddy a hard time, and they're both enjoying every minute of it.

"Hey, Wilson," House asks him, "Does heavy breathing count as deep breathing with pneumonia? 'Cuz if it does, Cuddy's turquoise blouse is really more effective, medically, than those stupid aerosol treatments."

"Interesting theory," Wilson responds dryly as he sets the coffee tray on the table. "I'll have to look it up, but I'm pretty certain that the blouse is missing something in the bronchodilation department."

House leers at Cuddy's chest. "I assure you, Jimmy, that the blouse is missing absolutely nothing. They're both there, in all their awesome abundance. And all the heavy breathing is dilating my airways just fine."

"Good try," Cuddy responds with a stern look. "But I'm still gonna finish this assessment and get your neb ready. So you're going to have to train your eyes elsewhere while I go get the nebulizer."

"That's okay," House assures her. "The back view's almost as good as the front!"

"Incorrigible," Cuddy mutters as she leaves for the equipment. But she throws him a smile, and a wink, over her shoulder.

House reaches out to grab his coffee mug. "Wait," Wilson says. "Cuddy get your temp yet?"

"No, but I'm sure she's caused it to go up a degree or two," House says as Cuddy reenters. She rolls her eyes at him while Wilson hands him the thermometer.

"That should shut him up for a minute or two," Wilson says to Cuddy when House has the thermometer in his mouth. But they both wind up laughing, as House demonstrates that the inability to talk has no effect on his ability to be just as suggestively eloquent in the expressions he aims Cuddy's way.

When the thermometer beeps, House hands it to Wilson and reaches for the coffee. "This is good," he says, "But actual food would be better."

"Yeah, I'm working on that," Wilson says distractedly as he looks at the reading on the thermometer. "Maybe Cuddy did raise your temp. It's one-oh-one. You feeling all right?"

"Just fine," House assures him. "Except for the malnutrition that's setting in. Sick people need food. Quit being a doctor, and go be a chef."

"I'm going. Pancakes coming up. Just take it easy, okay? Look at something a little less stimulating. Like that pay-per-view cable bill you've been ignoring all week. You don't pay it, porn-on-demand becomes nothing but a dim memory, ya know." Wilson returns to the kitchen to start breakfast as Cuddy gets the antibiotic running.

A few minutes later, Cuddy joins him in the kitchen. "What happened this morning? How'd he hear the file?"

"Not sure. He mentioned hearing the water running in the kitchen. Said he thought I was cooking. I was cleaning up some coffee. A lot of coffee. Guess I didn't hear him over the water, and he just sat down to await his breakfast. Or something. At any rate, turns out he heard it, beginning to end. Told me not to feel guilty. Said it wasn't necessary, since the diagnosis is wrong. And then, he said we wouldn't have a diagnosis until after the biopsy, and we'd discuss it then. And only then. But I'm beginning to get the feeling that the moratorium on bringing it up applies only to me." Wilson rolls his eyes; the rules House creates can change as quickly as House's next whim.

"So what are you gonna do?"

"Play it his way, for now. Something'll give soon; he's already making jokes about it. And there's this," Wilson looks at Cuddy with happy surprise, as if it's just occurred to him; "There's nothing physically wrong with the leg; he's gonna be okay!"

Cuddy nods at Wilson, tries to give him the smile he expects, but her own happiness is tempered. Doesn't seem to me that either of them is really dealing with this yet, she thinks. I just hope they can hold it together until Dickinson gets here on Friday.

Cuddy takes the breakfast tray that Wilson hands her, puts a smile on her face, and returns to the living room.