CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: Veracity

Cuddy and Wilson sit next to one another on the couch; Wilson has his head in his hands. Cuddy puts an arm on his shoulders, gently draws him closer. "You know," she says, "I feel like we're parents, waiting for our child to come out of potentially life-saving surgery."

Wilson chokes on a laugh. "You're not far wrong. What's going on in there could be life-altering for him." He raises his head, and notices for the first time that this woman, who's so concerned with comforting him, has tears in her own eyes. "I'm sorry," he says. "This is just as hard on you, isn't it?"

Cuddy nods, and squeezes Wilson's hand. "It was difficult to watch that happen. House is… House. It's a shock, I guess, to be reminded that he's just as human, just as susceptible, as the rest of us."

"I know. While that was going on, I kept trying to remind myself that Dick was only doing what House himself does to his own patients on a regular basis. No matter how cruel it appears, he believes that the end justifies the means." Wilson sighs, and looks at Cuddy with pained eyes. "All Dick did was pull a 'House' on House. So why does it hurt so much?"

Cuddy smiles at him. "That's easy. We care about our patients, of course, but it's abstract, a removed kind of caring. But House is… family. With him, the caring is tangible; it's real, and yes, it hurts. We're… invested in his recovery, in his well-being. That's why we must let Dr. Dickinson handle this. As much as we wish we could, neither one of us is in any position to help House right now."

"Do you think he's okay?" Wilson asks, looking towards the bedroom.

"Who?" Cuddy asks wryly. "House, or Dick?"

Wilson smiles. "Point taken. It's just that sometimes, I worry about him. House, I mean. For all his bluster, for all his professed hatred of emotion, sometimes he seems so damned... vulnerable, so…." Wilson searches for the word that'll describe that indefinable quality of House's that makes both Wilson and Cuddy want to safeguard him, even from himself.

"Innocent," Cuddy finishes for him. "I know what you mean. He spends so much time fitting everything neatly into intellectual boxes, and when something doesn't fit in the box, he doesn't know how to handle it, and he's surprised. It's almost like…." She thinks a minute. "It's like he doesn't know how to protect himself. So he gets hurt."

"Yeah. But then he hides that hurt behind sarcasm or anger, tries to divert your attention from it. And of course, once he's got you distracted, he doesn't have to acknowledge his feelings. So we all wind up thinking of him as just a cold-hearted, unfeeling bastard. And what's sad is, he chalks that up as a win." Wilson shakes his head.

Cuddy's quick to reassure Wilson. "But now he's busted, you know. At least with us. And maybe someday, some of the trust he's given us may spill over to the rest of the human race."

Wilson laughs, stands and goes to the window. He glances out with interest.

"What are you doing?" Cuddy's puzzled.

"Looking for flying pigs, what else?"

Cuddy laughs too. "Okay, you're probably right. Not likely. So let's just be grateful that we've gotten as far as we have with him. And let's trust that Dickinson will be able to take him the rest of the way."

Wilson turns away from the window. "Want some coffee?"

"Sounds good."

For more than an hour, they sit and try to talk about anything but what's going on down the hall. They're only partially successful, though, and when they hear the door open, followed by footsteps in the hallway, they stand, in tandem, anxiously—Cuddy's reminded again of overwrought parents in a surgical waiting room, as Wilson reaches for her hand.

Dick enters the living room and flashes them a tired smile. "Is that coffee? Smells good."

Wilson quickly pours him a cup as they both regard him apprehensively. Dick takes a long swallow of his coffee before speaking. "He's… okay. Fascinating man." He turns to Wilson. "He says to tell you that I'm better than Dr. Phil, but that I'd give Oprah a run for her money. He also requests that you… umm… find him a Nerf ball before our next session." Dick gives Wilson a puzzled smile. "Care to translate?"

Wilson chuckles. "Well, the good news—the great news—is there's gonna be a next session. The bad news is that you'd better get yourself a thesaurus and learn a few new words for 'feelings,' or you're gonna be spending a lot of time dodging a flying ball!"

Dickinson still looks a little confused, but he smiles gamely. "All right, will do. Thanks for the warning. I… think." His dubious expression makes them laugh.

Wilson stands. "I'm gonna go check on him."

"No," Dickinson says quickly. "He… uh… specifically requested Lisa."

A hurt look flashes briefly across Wilson's face, but it's replaced with a wide smile as Dickinson, turning to Cuddy, continues, "He said to tell you that he's willing to be a guinea pig tonight for what he termed your 'new-age relaxation garbage,' but that it would cost you six clinic hours. Does that make any sense to you?"

Cuddy grins and shakes her head. "I'm afraid it makes perfect sense." She starts toward the bedroom.

"Wait," Dick says. "I may be a 'fake' doctor, but I think the morphine's wearing off; he seems kind've restless. And I'm sure that in Dr. House's book, this is practicing medicine without a license, but I'd bet my own license—even if I did fish it out of a Cracker Jack box, according to him—that he could use a breathing treatment."

"I'll take care of it," Cuddy responds. "As far as the restlessness, it's way past time for his hydrocodone, so I'm sure he's experiencing some discomfort. And I won't tell him you suggested the aerosol." Cuddy smiles at Dick and leaves to gather the supplies.

Wilson and Dickinson sit, sipping their coffee. "I understand that you can't tell me what went on, Dick, but I have to ask—is he gonna be okay?"

"Actually, he ordered me to tell you exactly what went on; said you two have a deal—no secrets. But I think that, right now, the most important thing for you to know is that he's embarrassed, worried about seeing you. He's afraid you'll think he's weak."

"He told you that?" Wilson is incredulous.

"Well, no, not precisely. What he said was 'Jimmy's gonna have a field day with this. He'll hold it over my head until I start washing dishes, which means I'll be hearing about it for years.' And he didn't exactly say it to me; he appeared to be… conversing with the ceiling… at the time."

"Yeah, he shares some of his deepest feelings and insights with that ceiling," Wilson says wryly. "I'm well acquainted with their conversations."

The two men smile at each other as Cuddy enters the room. "He's sleeping like a baby," she says, smiling. "And I do mean like a baby; he's completely relaxed, looks like the weight of the world's been lifted from his shoulders this evening."

Wilson looks at Dick. "Thank you. And don't worry about House's little talk with the plaster. When I get finished telling him how much I admire him—all said in code, of course, and probably to his confidant, the ceiling—his ego'll be so big he'll need to add on another room to accommodate it."

Dick laughs, and gives Cuddy and Wilson a sidelong glance as he says slyly, "And then, you'll have to call in The Incredible Shrinking Dick to bring it back down to size."

Both Wilson and Cuddy groan, and hide their heads in their hands. But after a moment, they smile helplessly at each other, and join Dick in his unrestrained laughter.