Bad Days
The minute he woke up, he knew it was going to be one of his bad days.
The bad days—the days when the pain was so unbearable he could hardly move—had been fewer and farther between lately, and it didn't exactly take a man of House's intellect to figure out why.
He'd had a patient once, that guy with the epileptic pain disorder, who told House that his pain was magnified when he was around loved ones, because he had to put up a fake front.
But House found the exact opposite to be true—spending time with Cuddy and Rachel actually distracted him from the pain, or at least put him in a happier frame of mind to deal with it. (Not to mention the fact that sex with Cuddy released more dopamine than a whole bottle of vicodin.)
But that didn't mean the bad days didn't come, days when no amount of Rachel amusing him or Cuddy turning him on was going to relieve him—and he was having one of those days now.
His thigh was throbbing. His entire leg felt like it was being stabbed by hot pokers. He wanted to get out of bed but the thought of even putting the tiniest bit pressure on his limb filled him with dread.
And that was when Rachel came bounding into the bedroom.
"Play with me!" she demanded, jumping on the bed.
"Rachel, it's not a good time," he said thickly. "Go find your mommy."
"She's being boring!" Rachel said. "Play with me!"
"Kiddo, House doesn't feel too well. Can you maybe let me rest a bit?"
"You're no fun!" Rachel said, jumping up and down. "Be fun!"
"I can't."
"Be fun!"
And with that, she jumped on him, kamikaze-style and landed squarely on his infarction.
The pain that shot up his leg was searing, nauseating, it took his breath away.
"Rachel get the fuck off me!" he screamed.
And it was like a gun had gone off.
Even if he hadn't seen the look on Rachel's face, he'd have known that he had just crossed some invisible line, some point of no return.
But she went white. She looked shocked, terrified. Then her little lip began to tremble and she burst into tears.
"Rachel! I'm—"
But she had taken off, off the bed, toward the door, and right into the outstretched arms of her mother, who had heard House's outburst and come running.
"Are you out of your mind?" she hissed and scooped Rachel off the floor, wrapping her arms around her little girl, consoling her.
"It's okay, baby. It's okay. . ." she murmured, leading her away from the bad man who had just so badly scared her.
House was so stunned by this development, he almost forgot about his leg. He got up quickly. His leg buckled under him and he fell, in a heap, on the floor.
"Fuuuuuck!"
He grabbed his cane, which he had hooked to the bed post, and tried to stand. The cane was supposed to be a crutch, not a pole, but he found himself putting all his weight on it with both hands before he could finally straighten up.
He limped after them, toward Rachel's bedroom.
He stood in the doorway. Rachel was still sobbing and Cuddy was still trying to comfort her.
He stood there, helplessly, not knowing what to say or do. Finally, he wandered into the living room, sat down on the couch, and began rubbing his leg.
About 15 minutes later, Cuddy emerged.
He looked up.
"Is she okay?" he whispered.
"No," Cuddy said. "She's inconsolable."
"Can I go talk to her? To apologize?"
"No," Cuddy said. "She doesn't want to see you."
"Oh . . . Cuddy, I'm . . .I'm . . . so sorry."
"What the fuck happened in there, House? What just happened?"
"My leg," he started, knowing that no excuse would ever be adequate. "It was killing me. And she was jumping on the bed and she . . . landed on me. . ."
"So you screamed at her? Cursed at her? A three-year-old?"
"I didn't mean it. . .It was a reaction. . I was in excruciating. . ."
"I can't look at you right now, House," she said. "Get out."
"Cuddy, I. . ."
She looked at the floor, clenched her jaw, like she was having a very hard time composing herself. If she were a man, he might suspect that she was about to strike him.
"I'm serious, House," she said. "Do not make me ask you again."
He bowed his head and, with great effort, stood up.
"Just tell her I'm sorry, okay?" he said lamely. "When she wakes up. Just tell her I'm really sorry."
Cuddy didn't respond.
He managed to limp to the door and he left.
#######
His apartment felt musty and sour and desolate and it was probably the last place on earth he should've been. It was haunted to him—filled with memories of darker times. How long was he going to be stuck here? Days? Weeks? Permanently?
But the worst thing about his apartment was that it had vicodin. Lots of it. Not in the medicine cabinet, or any of the expected places. But in holes in walls, in shoe boxes, in the hollowed out pages of text books.
He was depressed, in pain, alone, and he had access to vicodin.
It was a perfect storm.
His mind kept flashing to Rachel's face, her racking sobs. Then the look of anger in Cuddy's eyes. He truly felt like he was going to be sick.
He went to the bathroom and knelt in front of the toilet. But he couldn't throw up.
Then he opened the lid to the toilet tank. A bottle of vicodin was there, wrapped in plastic.
He unwrapped the bottle and looked at it.
His heart rate actually began to steady at the sight of the pills. They represented sweet relief, escape from misery and pain.
He shook two pills into his palm and stared at them.
Then he hesitated:
Is this all it takes to throw away two years of sobriety? he thought. To throw away everything you've worked so hard for? Is this how weak a man you are?
So he grit his teeth and flushed the pills and decided to take comfort in the one other thing besides Rachel and Cuddy, medical puzzles, or vicodin that could ever distract him from the pain.
######
At work on Monday, he figured it was wise to get some motherly advice before he tried to apologize again.
So he went to Wilson's office.
Much to his surprise, Cuddy was there already, sitting in the chair he had been planning on occupying himself, looking miserable.
He lurked just outside the door so they couldn't see him and pressed his ear up against the wall.
"It was horrible Wilson," she was saying. "Rachel was petrified. I'd never seen her like that before."
"Poor kid," Wilson said.
"I always knew something like this would happen," Cuddy continued. "I mean, I hoped it wouldn't, but I feared it would. This was my worst fear come to life."
"Cuddy, you know he didn't mean it. . ." Wilson said. "It was an accident. He must be beating himself up over it."
"I know he didn't mean it. That's what scares me even more!" she said.
House didn't have to strain his ears anymore—she was shouting now.
"He was out of control. No grown man yells at a 3-year-old like that unless he's out of control. So what's next? More screaming? More cursing? Or worse? Does he accidentally strike her?"
Upon hearing this, House had no choice but to defend himself:
"I would never lay a hand on Rachel," he said, entering the office.
They both looked at him.
"House!" Wilson said, shocked.
But Cuddy was unmoved by his sudden appearance.
"You say that now," she said evenly. "But if I had asked you last week, would you have said you were capable of screaming at her like that?"
"No," House admitted.
"Then can you say for sure you would never hit her?"
"Yes," he said, looking her squarely in the eyes.
"Well, I'm glad one of us is sure," Cuddy muttered.
There was a long silence.
"I'll come by and get my shit tonight," he said.
######
He came by the house and she let him in and they stared at each other solemnly.
"Can I at least go talk to her?" he asked.
Cuddy gave a half shrug.
"She's in her room."
House took a deep breath, knocked and entered Rachel's room.
She was sitting on the floor, playing with her Wonder Girl and Wonder Woman action figures.
"Hi," he said.
She looked up, didn't say anything.
"You're still pretty mad at me, huh?" he said.
She had been making the Wonder Girl doll fly—now she crashed it, legs first, into the rug.
"I don't blame you, Rach. I'd be mad at me, too."
She continued to ignore him.
"Wonder Girl? Are you okay?" she said—she was doing the voice of the Wonder Woman doll.
"Rach—it's important that you know this. What happened, that wasn't your fault."
Rachel was now mouthing consoling words to the fallen Wonder Girl: "It's okay, baby. You're going to be okay."
"I should never have yelled at you like that. Nobody should ever yell at you like that, you understand? It's not acceptable."
"There there, Wonder Girl. I'm here now," Rachel was saying.
"Rach—can you look at me for a second?"
Rachel stopped playing, looked at him with those wide, expectant eyes of hers.
"I'm so sorry, kiddo. Do you think maybe you could forgive me one day?"
Rachel blinked at him.
"It doesn't have to be today," he continued. "It doesn't even have to be tomorrow. But maybe one day? Because I feel really bad about what happened—I mean, really bad—and it would just be so great to know that we can be friends again."
Rachel considered it for a second, then nodded. It seemed a reasonable request.
House exhaled, smiled gratefully.
"Wanna shake on it?" he said.
His leg pain had subsided somewhat since Saturday, but it still hurt quite a bit. Still, he knelt by her side, held out his hand formally.
But instead of taking his hand, she crawled into his lap and gave him a hug.
"I forgive you today," she whispered.
And it was all he could do to not start bawling like a little bitch.
He kissed the top of her head.
"Thanks, Rach. Thanks so much."
"You wanna play Wonder Girl with me?" she said.
"I sure do," he said. "It looks like Wonder Girl may have broken her leg in the fall. Should we splint the leg and take her to the superhero hospital?"
"Yeah," Rachel said. Then she whispered to Wonder Girl: "Don't worry, he's a very good doctor."
########
About half an hour later Cuddy entered the room.
They had Wonder Girl's leg in a makeshift split made of an ice cream stick and they were putting her on a gurney fashioned out of a comb.
"What's going on here?" Cuddy said, not able to keep herself from smiling at the sight.
"Wonder Girl had a crash landing but Howse saved her!" Rachel said.
"Well, thanks goodness he was here," Cuddy said.
"Yeah," Rachel said.
"But I'm afraid it's time for bed, sweetie."
"Five more minutes?" Rachel said. "Pleeeeease."
"It's already long past your bedtime."
Rachel looked down.
"Okay," she said dejectedly.
"Say goodnight to House."
In a familiar way, Rachel wrapped her arms around House's neck and kissed him goodnight.
"See ya tomorrow, Howse," she said, yawning.
"G'night, kiddo."
House got up, left Cuddy to put Rachel to sleep.
He went into the bedroom and started clearing out his drawer—shoving tee-shirts, socks and boxers into a duffel bag.
A few minutes later, Cuddy was at his side.
"You don't have to do that," she said.
"I think it's for the best," he said.
"I never asked you to move out," Cuddy said.
"No, but you think I would actually hit Rachel," he said, busying himself, not looking at her. "That's all I need to know."
Cuddy sat on the bed, watching him clear the drawer.
"Rachel loves you," she said. "I love you."
"What's love got to do with it?" he muttered.
"Everything," she said.
"But here's the thing, Cuddy. Anytime I do anything wrong—anything—it's always, 'I knew it! I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I always knew House had this in him.' It's like you're standing around waiting for me to fuck up."
"And you so rarely disappoint," she said. Then she immediately regretted it. "Sorry. That was a low blow."
He sighed.
"Look, House," she said. "You're right. I overreacted. I was a mama bear protecting her cub. You can't blame me."
"I don't," he said. "I'm a risky proposition. We've both always known that."
"But I take some blame in this myself."
"How so?"
"I should've anticipated this. You've been so good at concealing your pain. . . I sometimes forget about what agony you're in."
"It's my pain," House said. "I don't expect you to keep tabs on it."
"But I. . .want to. I want to share your pain, House. That's what loving someone means."
"I don't like talking about it," he said.
"I know you don't. And I accept that. But I should've made things more clear to Rachel. We've talked to her about your pain, but not enough. I don't think we've ever properly emphasized what it means."
"I guess it's pretty fucking emphasized now," he said, with a bitter laugh.
Cuddy got up from the bed, touched his arm.
"Stop packing. Please. I don't want you to go."
He stopped.
"I need to hear you say that you know I would never lay a hand on her."
Cuddy closed her eyes guiltily.
"I know," she said.
"Say it."
"I know you would never lay a hand on Rachel."
"Thank you," he said. His shoulders slumped.
She put her arms around his waist.
"Let's work through this—together, okay?" she said. "Don't give up on us so quickly."
"I won't if you won't," he said.
"I won't," she said, giving him a kiss. "I promise."
He smiled wearily, sat down on the bed.
"I really do feel like such an asshole," he said. "I still can't believe I yelled at her like that. She's such a great kid."
"Yeah. . .she is," Cuddy said, sitting next to him, lightly rubbing his back.
"It was her idea to use dental floss to secure Wonder Girl's leg in the splint," he said, not able to conceal his admiration.
"I'd like to say that she gets her brains from her mother, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't work that way with adoption," Cuddy chuckled.
"She does take after you," House said. "Both stubborn. . . and willing to forgive."
######
They sat down with Rachel and a had a long talk with her about House's leg and how important it was to leave him alone when it was hurting (Rachel gave them a look that said, "Now you tell me?") and things went back to normal.
That is, until a few weeks after the incident when House began acting strangely. He started coming home very late, or sometimes leaving for a few hours in the middle of the night.
There was always a new excuse—he was working late, he left something at the hospital, he just had gone out for a walk to get some air.
Gone for a walk? On one leg? That was a bit too farfetched for Cuddy to buy.
"I think House is having an affair," she said to Wilson.
His mouth dropped open.
"What? Wait. . .what?"
"He keeps disappearing on me, for a few hours at a time. And then he's very cagey about where he's been."
"No way House is having an affair. No way. Not happening," Wilson said.
"But things have been strained between us. . .since the Rachel incident. He thinks I don't trust him."
"Gee, I can't imagine why."
"Can you find out what he's up to?"
"I can," Wilson said, gazing at her. "But wouldn't it be better if you just asked him yourself?"
"No, because then it would seem like I don't trust him."
And they both laughed at the irony.
"Cuddy, House isn't cheating on you—I don't know what he's up to and for all I know it's far more nefarious than a simple affair. But I know him. And I know how he feels about you. Trust me, you have no worries in that department."
Cuddy bit her nail, looked at him skeptically.
"If you say so. . ."
#####
One argument against her theory: House's sexual appetite was as robust as ever. He was all over her almost every night—and had even pulled her into an exam room, begging for a quickie, last week.
"You can't wear that to work and expect me to concentrate on healing the sick," he whined, ogling her up and down. (Against her better judgment, she had obliged. He was wearing his pink Oxford shirt, which had always had a similar effect on her.)
When guys cheated they didn't want to constantly have sex with their partners, right? Right?
But the disappearances continued. They would stop for a few weeks and then return: A few hours here, a few hours there. So finally she decided to call him on it.
They were lying next to each other, getting ready for bed. Cuddy was reading The New Yorker. House was looking at his phone, watching some viral video of a guy getting kicked by a cow.
He laughed, rewound.
"You've got to see this," he said to her.
"House, we need to talk."
"Uh oh. . ."
"I just. . .need to know where you've been going at night. . .and don't tell me the hospital, because I know better than that. And please don't insult my intelligence by saying that you're taking walks."
House put the phone down, sighed.
"I'm not going to the hospital," he admitted. "And I'm not going for walks. And I'm not having an affair, if that's what you're worried about."
"I never. . ."
"If you must know, I'm going home."
"Home?"
"Back to my apartment."
"Why," she said, trying to understand. "Because you need some alone time? A break from us?"
"No, nothing like that. Because my leg has been hurting lately . . ."
And your stash of vicodin is there, she thought, but didn't say.
"And it helps to. . . play my piano."
She felt such a rush of relief, she had to stop herself from bursting into laughter.
"Your piano! . . . Of course."
Now she felt like a jerk. Not only had she minimized the impact of House's pain, she'd forgotten how much he loved his piano.
"But why'd you lie about it, House?"
"I didn't want you worrying about my leg," House said.
"Great plan. Because instead I lost sleep worrying about where the hell you were going."
"My bad," he cracked.
"It's okay. You should be able to play your piano. Any time you want . . .just, you know, tell me where you're going next time, okay?"
"Okay," he said. "Now do you want to watch this guy get kicked in the 'nads by a cow? Because it never gets old."
#######
Sometimes House slept so late on weekends that Rachel and Cuddy could get up, have breakfast, go to the park, and be ready for lunch when he finally woke up.
This was one of those mornings.
He felt a small hand tugging at his t-shirt sleeve.
"Wake up, Howse! Wake up!"
He poked open an eye.
Rachel was standing there, next to the bed.
"What time is it?" he said, yawning extravagantly.
Rachel picked up the clock, shoved it in his face: 11:30.
"Whoops. Is mommy mad?" he said, popping up.
"No silly. She has a surprise for you."
"A surprise?"
"Yeah, you're supposed to get up and come into the living room . . .right now!"
"Now huh?" he said, rubbing his head. "Hand me my cane, shorty."
Rachel got his cane. He got up, put on a robe.
"Mommy said close your eyes!" she said.
"No. That will end with things going bang and somebody in pain. Most likely me."
"Close your eyes!" she demanded, taking his hand. She was going to lead him.
He squinted at her.
"Can I trust you to be my seeing eye dog?"
"Woof!" she said.
"Okay."
He closed his eyes. Clutching his hand, Rachel slowly, carefully led him into the living room.
"Your eyes still closed?" Cuddy said.
"Who said that?" House said.
Rachel giggled. "It was mommy."
"Ohhhh."
"Okay," Cuddy said. "You can open them on the count of three. One. . .two. . ."
"Three!" Rachel chimed in.
House opened his eyes.
Rachel and Cuddy were both beaming, standing in front of a Yamaha baby grand piano. Black. So perfectly polished, he could see his reflection in it.
"Oh my God," he said, staring. "What did you do?"
"That means he likes it," Cuddy said to Rachel.
"How did you even. . .? This morning? While I slept?"
"House, a bomb could explode in the living room and you would sleep through it."
He limped over to the piano.
"May I?"
"It's all yours, House. Knock yourself out."
He sat down tentatively on the bench.
"I know it's not as nice as the one you have at your apartment, but. . ." she said.
"Cuddy, no. It's perfect."
He started to play.
The keys had a nice action and the piano, while not quite as warm as the one in his apartment, had a beautiful clarity and brightness. The warmth would come with time.
"Thank you. . ." he said. "I mean I. . .can't thank you enough."
"Thank Rachel, too. She helped me pick it out."
"You did?" House said, looking at her.
Rachel, not used to seeing House so happy, had a sudden bout of bashfulness and nodded, smiling shyly, as she looked down at the floor.
"Thank you, Rach. I love it. C'mere."
He pat on the bench next to him.
Rachel sat down.
"Put your fingers here and here and . . . here. Okay now play."
Rachel pressed down. The chord sounded.
"Congratulations, you just played your first C chord."
"I did?" she asked, looking at him in wonder.
"Yeah, you did."
Cuddy stood behind him, wrapped her arms around his neck.
"How's the pain now?" she whispered.
He looked up at her.
"What pain?"
THE END