Unsure of why House wanted her with him and what he really had in mind, Cuddy simply followed him to the bedroom and stood back near the dresser, watching. He sat down on the edge of the bed with a grunt and toed off his sneakers, then pulled off his socks and absently tossed them to the floor. As he had done a million times before, House reached into his pocket and pulled out the all too familiar bottle of Vicodin, tipping two into his mouth and swallowing with barely a second thought. With a yawn he flopped back onto the bed and closed his eyes.
After a while he muttered, "Patience is a virtue, Cuddy," then opened his eyes, turning his head to look at her.
"Which of us is the virtue for?"
"For both of us."
"Why do you say that?" She walked to the foot of the bed and waited.
"A lot of fun and games have gone on this here bed--"
"That's an interesting way of putting it," she said, as memories of being tangled in the sheets with him flashed through her head. She was sure more new memories would be created in the next few days.
"--but right now I'm too damned drained to ride that ride," House continued, sitting up and pulling his right leg onto the bed, then stretching his long legs out until his bare feet were close enough for her to reach out and tickle. "So the carnival is closed until further notice."
"You're too tired to screw my brains out right now is what you're trying to say."
"Pretty much. But I wouldn't mind a little company for the time being."
Raising an eyebrow, Cuddy asked, "You wanted me to come in here so I can watch you sleep?"
"No, I wanted you to come in here and watch me fall asleep." He patted the empty side of the bed. "Come here."
Without comment she walked over to the other side of the bed, pausing only to take her shoes off before taking her spot next to him. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough to see the redness in his weary eyes.
"You washed the bedding yesterday," House noted dryly.
"You can tell? How do you know it was yesterday?"
"It's only ten in the morning, and I can't see you doing my laundry at the crack of the dawn just for the hell of it. I can smell that fabric softener you use."
"You don't use any, so I had to bring mine," Cuddy said. House would probably wash his laundry only once a month if he thought it was possible to get away with it. It was pretty close to amazing that House took the time to wash his clothes and bedding at all. She wondered if he had ever tricked Wilson into doing that for him and made a mental note to ask the oncologist later. "I figured sleeping in some clean and soft sheets would be nice little treat for you for the next few days."
Turning on his side, House said, "It is."
For a moment Cuddy was silent, sure that he would launch into a bitchfest about the scent of the fabric softener, a scent he had dismissed as "flowery to the point of being pungent" and "too girly" for him before.
House went on: "Spending a few months in an asylum makes sleeping with this girly smell seem like pure heaven."
In between his monologues about wanting to come home during her visits, House complained about anything and everything the asylum had to offer. The doctors (or "quacks" as he called them, sometimes to their faces), his room, his bed, the food, the various medications he took that made him feel loopy, the other patients, the other patients' visitors; if it existed within his sight during his stay at the asylum, House bitched about it. She learned to take it in stride and let him vent at her, figuring his blowing off some steam when she was there saved him from going ballistic, being held down by four burly orderlies and sedated against his will a few times.
"Your time there helped you with your hallucinations."
"It did, and I never said it didn't."
"Isn't that what you wanted? You wanted help none of us could give you."
"Yes."
"You got that help didn't you?"
"I got it, but sometimes I wonder if the trade-off was worth it."
Threading her fingers through his, she said, "It wasn't that bad, House."
"No, it wasn't. It was worse."
A knot formed in her stomach as Cuddy asked, "Did something happen, House?"
House turned over onto his back and replied, "I saw two dead people who wouldn't go away and checked myself into an asylum. That's what happened. It wasn't one little thing, it was the whole experience. You have no idea how scared I was…how afraid that once I went in that place…that I'd never come back out."
Carerfully, she asked, "Why did you check yourself in; if you were so afraid, why did you do it?"
"Because I was more afraid of what might have happened if I hadn't checked myself in," House sounded like he was confessing a sin, staring past the ceiling.
"What do you think might have happened?" Worried about House, it took everything she had to keep her voice from wavering.
What might have happened? Cuddy didn't want to think about it. She tried her damndest not to think about it even as blurry pictures of finding him with a several empty bottles of Vicodin or knife held to his wrists swam into sharp focus…
With much relief he interrupted her thoughts by waving a hand dismissively. "Not now," he said as he rolled back over to face her, reaching out and pulling her closer like she was a giant stuffed animal. He draped an arm across her middle, basically pinning her to the bed. "You don't have to stay here all day…just stay here until I fall asleep, okay?"
"I will," she said. And she did.
It was only a few minutes before House was out cold and snoring away, which meant that Cuddy could have inched her way out from under his arm and left the room so he could finish his nap alone. But she didn't do that, not right then. Just leaving him there alone seemed ridiculous. He needed her and she was going to be there whenever and wherever he needed her. For more than an hour she stayed with him, wanting to make up for some of the time they had lost. Too much time, she thought with regret, and slowly twisted around in his embrace until she could unbutton his shirt and feel more of his warmth and more of his skin under the palms of her hands.
