CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: Opinions

When House awakens at 6:20am, the fever's gone. He takes a few experimental breaths, and finds that his lungs are actually expanding again. He removes the nasal cannula, sits up and swings his legs cautiously over the edge of the bed. He puts the right leg through its usual morning paces; just the normal amount of discomfort. Nothing wrong at all with the left leg—for now.

House looks disdainfully at the left thigh. Think you could behave yourself today? If Wilson and his shrink are right, I'm demoting you. You're not the boss anymore; just need to get my act together, get back in control. You're only a muscle; I'm the brains of this outfit, so just do your job and don't expect any special treatment.

He stands slowly, tentatively, putting most of his weight on the left leg and using the IV pole as a stand-in for his cane. Wilson must've hidden the damned thing again; what'd I do last night? Oh, yeah….

House locates the cane; it's leaning against the back of the bedside chair. Once he's got it firmly gripped in his right hand, and his left is curled securely around the handle of the IV pole, he heads quietly out of the bedroom. He's pleased that his steps are sure, but he moves slowly anyway; he doesn't want to disturb Wilson.

As he makes his way through the living room, House pauses for a moment. Wilson is sleeping soundly. His hair is mussed; some of it's sticking up, some is falling over his forehead. His arms are flung out at angles, and even his hands are open and relaxed, palms up. Vulnerable and so trusting, even in sleep.

House observes his friend silently. You accuse me of being a kid; you don't look a minute over eight years old right now. Been dumping a lot on your shoulders lately; gotta say you're handling it pretty well—for a kid. He allows himself a small, fond smile as he continues on to the kitchen.

Once he's got the coffee brewing, House wonders if he could pull off making breakfast. He digs through the freezer, locates a coffee cake and nods with satisfaction. He turns the oven on to preheat, pours his coffee, and sits down to wait for the oven to warm.

Wilson's left his chart on the table, and after a moment, House reaches over and pulls the file closer. He pages through it, just skimming over most of the words, until he reaches the transcript of the first voice file. He reads it through quickly, shaking his head. Then he gets up, pours another cup of coffee, puts the cake in the oven, and returns to the table.

He turns the transcript back to the first page. This time he peruses it slowly, thoughtfully, paragraph by paragraph. Occasionally, he lifts his head to look towards where Wilson sleeps in the living room, and in his mind, he hears Wilson's words to him, the morning after he'd come home from this session:

"They're sending the voice file. If you want to hear it, you can. House, no tricks to this. I'm not trying to psych you out. I went because I want to be the best friend I can be, and the best doctor, because you deserve that. I didn't say anything to him that you can't hear, no secrets I don't want you to know. I'm not ashamed that I did it, not ashamed of anything I said."

"Gotta admire your honesty, Jimmy," House murmurs aloud. He isn't angry at the revelations he's just read, and he isn't sure why. Then, he realizes that he's proud of Wilson, proud of his willingness to risk so much, to be so open, and all of it just to try to help House. Made some mistakes in my life, big ones. But no one can accuse me of not knowing how to pick a best friend.

House is rereading the last lines of the voice file for the third time, 'This time, I don't lose my brother,' and he's nodding his head slowly, lost in thought, when, simultaneously, the oven timer rings and there's a quiet knock at the door. He shuts off the oven and limps as quickly as he can through the living room.

Cuddy's surprised to see House open the door. "Everything all right?" she asks.

House puts a finger to his lips, and indicates Wilson, sleeping undisturbed by the knocking and the timer. "We had… kind've a rough night. Made 'im take an extra Ativan." House smiles ruefully. "I was a bad boy; upset him pretty good. Let's let him sleep it off," he says as he starts back towards the kitchen.

Cuddy sighs and shakes her head as she follows him. What now?

As soon as they enter the kitchen, Cuddy sees the file, open to the last page of the transcript. She looks quickly at House; he nods at her, but she can't decipher the expression on his face.

"Get yourself some coffee," he tells her, keeping his voice low. "There's cake in the oven if you're hungry." He sits, and as Cuddy moves around the kitchen, she sees him run his hand gently over that last page, those final words.

After she's filled a mug for herself, she cuts two slices of the coffee cake and puts them on the table, then takes a seat. "Want to talk about it?" She keeps her voice carefully neutral; the last time House had looked this discomfited was the evening he'd come to her office and pleaded for morphine. Yeah, he's the world's biggest egoist; sometimes he's the world's biggest ass, too—but it hurts, somehow, to see him looking this… humbled.

"I yelled at him. Basically told him I wasn't buying into his diagnosis, and… uh… I pushed him, told him to leave…." House's voice, already low, trails off, and Cuddy has to lean forward to catch the last words.

"Pushed him? Literally? Physically?" When House nods, Cuddy presses her fingers to her temples and sucks in a deep breath. "And then?"

"Guess he… I dunno. He was upset; he kinda… snapped." House looks directly at Cuddy. "My fault," he adds defiantly, as if he expects her to argue the point. "But I fixed it," he says quietly, and there's no pride in the statement; Cuddy feels as if it's more of a question, a plea for understanding.

Cuddy nods at him, and smiles kindly. "If you managed to get him to take an extra pill, and get him to sleep in, you fixed it," she affirms for him, and she sees the relief on his face. "And what about this?" she asks, indicating the folder open in front of him.

"It was on the table!" House is defensive.

Cuddy's quick to reassure him. "House, that's not what I meant. They're your records; you've every right to look at them. I just wanted to know if you're… okay with everything."

House nods, firmly. "Jimmy's… something, isn't he?" Cuddy can hear the awe in his voice, and the pride, and she smiles as he continues. "Haven't made it easy on him, and he stuck around anyway. Points for loyalty, if not intelligence—I would've run the other way by now."

Cuddy, a sparkle in her eye, indicates the cane. "No, you wouldn't."

"Niice." House rolls his eyes, but immediately becomes serious again. "The thing I can't figure out is, if he really believes this thing with the leg is all in my head, why's he still willing to do the muscle biopsy?"

"Because you asked him to," Cuddy says simply. When House looks at her quizzically, she shakes her head at him. "Haven't you figured it out yet? He can't deny you anything. Even if he believes he's right, he's got so much respect, so much admiration for you, that your opinion means as much to him as his own, or Dickinson's—maybe more. So he'll do as you ask. You said it yourself; the man's loyalty is unshakable."

"Yeah, well, maybe he should question my opinion, once in a while; I don't know everything." House looks down and frowns.

Cuddy can't believe what she's just heard. "Are you saying you're willing to accept the new diagnosis?" she asks cautiously.

"No," House answers quickly. "Just saying I might be willing to… consider it." House closes the folder and pushes it away from him, across the table. "But like I told Wilson, no more DDX until after the biopsy," he says decisively.

Cuddy smiles to herself; Wilson's right—House's 'rules' about this diagnosis certainly change quickly. So she isn't surprised when his next statement indicates that he's closed the subject, at least for now.

"So, you heard about tomorrow night's poker game? Gonna give me a chance to send you home broke?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Cuddy tells him. "But it's only fair to warn you, I'm gonna beat the pants off you!"

Wilson wanders into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and yawning. "What'd I miss?" he asks.

House grins. "Just the usual. Cuddy was trying to get into my pants again."

Wilson groans and sits down. "And I haven't even had my first cup of coffee yet," he moans as he puts his head in his hands.

House and Cuddy share a smile as Cuddy stands to get the poor man his coffee.