Part 7
Coming in from out of the cold, Cuddy saw House on his feet, limping toward the bathroom. To say he was unsteady was an understatement. His bad leg nearly buckled every time he took a step.
She frowned. "Where's your cane?"
Without looking back, he quipped, "Casualty of yesterday's Easy Rider mishap. Need to find an antique shop around here somewhere. Whatcha say, Cuddy? It's New England, think I've got a shot at finding one?"
Cuddy couldn't help but smile hearing a bit of the old House in his words, even though his tone was tight from pain. He loved old, stylish canes — or ones with hot-rod flames.
Dropping her bag onto the first bed, she eased up beside him and silently offered her assistance. He looked at her for only a moment before accepting, draping his right arm around her shoulders and then pushing away from the dresser. He didn't lean on her as they continued the journey, just relied on her to keep him steady and balanced. It was a bit tricky considering he was a head taller than her, but they'd done this particular shuffle before and fell into step as if the last time had been yesterday.
When they reached the threshold, she asked him if he was going to bathe.
"Yeah," he grunted.
"You got it?" She was almost afraid to ask. Sometimes he would accept help. Sometimes he would resent the offer and launch a verbal volley of caustic insults and sarcasm.
Cuddy figured he was in a mood to be helped today because he actually shook his head. She wasn't surprised. The pain had been so bad earlier she doubted he was feeling all that much better. Now he was embarking on a task that would require him to remain standing for at least several minutes at a time, not to mention the travel time to and from the bed.
Once he was standing on the tile, he removed his arm from around her and braced his hand against the door jamb. "Gotta pee," he told her.
Cuddy eased away and gave him the privacy he wanted. "Let me know when you're ready."
He did and when she returned, she had him sit on the toilet so she could help him out of his shirt. "Sponge bath would be best with those cuts on your leg," the doctor in her advised, "But if you make it quick, a shower is doable. I'll just re-bandage when you're done."
He stared at the shower and tub for several long seconds, clearly debating which course to take. "I don't know how long I can stand." He looked at her then, eyes searching. "You up for it? It being a sponge bath."
"I think I can handle it," she said, giving him a little smile.
His relief was visible. He dropped his head with a heavily sighed "Thank you."
Cuddy didn't know if she owed their situation or his exhaustion and discomfort to his not making a joke at this point. In the past, sexual innuendos would have flown fast and furious, causing her to roll her eyes, blush, or jump his bones. But with none forthcoming, she got down to business and helped him undress down to his underwear. A couple of years ago, she would have helped with that garment, too, but their situation being what it was, she figured it would be best if he handled that part once she had the rest of him bathed.
On the bathroom counter, she found his toiletries bag and retrieved his body wash. The tub was closest to the toilet, so she closed the drain and ran some hot water into the basin.
"Be just a minute," she told him as she picked up his clothes and took them into the other room. While there, she stripped out of her nice skirt and blouse and put on the yoga pants and t-shirt from her bag, deciding she needed to spare her nicer clothes in case she needed them tomorrow.
When she returned to the bathroom, he was where she'd left him. His left hand was braced against the wall while his right was digging into his thigh above the worst cut and scar. His eyes were screwed shut and she watched the muscles tick in his jaw.
"House," she sighed in commiseration and quickly moved to snag a couple towels. She shut off the faucet, stirred in some of his body wash, then wet a rag. She made sure to wring out all the excess water.
Kneeling in front of him, for the second time of the day, she gently washed his feet and then his legs. She avoided his right thigh, deciding it would be best to do that last. If cleaning were to aggravate it, she didn't want him to have to wait for her to finish.
Cuddy rinsed and re-wet the cloth several times as she went about the task, washing and then wiping away any soap residue. When she moved to his torso, he commented that the heat felt good. She slowed her pace in response and felt some of the tension in his body begin to ease as she ran the cloth over his belly and chest.
She caught him watching her as she went about the task and noted he was looking at her again as if she might not really be there. That he was already wondering again made her fear what sort of shape he'd been in the last few days, since Wilson had passed and before she'd arrived.
House was a strong-willed man. But for all his mental acumen and physical durability in the face of great pain, there was a part of his beautiful mind that was fragile and should be stamped "handle with care."
That's what Cuddy was trying to do. The other stuff would be dealt with in time. Right now, he needed the quiet and gentleness, a safe place. For better or worse, she knew she was his safe place. He needed what only she could give him, what he would accept from only her. Which was probably why he thought he might be imagining it all.
Cuddy wished she knew how she could reassure him that he wasn't hallucinating. Then she decided she should just come out and say it.
Pausing, she stared directly in his eyes and stated softly, "I'm here."
His right hand moved from his thigh and she caught it, gripped it tightly while continuing to hold his gaze. After a few moments, he squeezed her hand in return and nodded.
"Okay."
Gently releasing her hold on his hand, she resumed washing him. "Let's finish up so you can lay down," she said as she ran the cloth over his fingers and palm, then up over his arm. He gave her his left arm once she was finished with the right, and turned slightly so she could reach his back.
When it came time to wash his face, Cuddy opened the drain on the tub then wet a new cloth in the sink with cool water. He closed his eyes and turned his face up when she returned to him. She ran the cloth slow and gentle over his brow then down along each side of his face. She watched in wonder as peace descended over his features in the wake of her touch. Then he opened his eyes, lids lifting slowly to reveal…
Gratitude. Openness. Love.
Cuddy was lost. This was her House. This was the man she'd given her heart to Michigan and again in Princeton, and though he'd broken her heart the last time, all she could see was him and tender, intoxicating affection. All she could feel was what she always felt when confronted with his love … breathless and wanting.
Laying aside the cloth, Cuddy took his face in her hands and caressed him again. She stroked his damp skin with her fingers, gently curled them around his ears, then trailed them lightly across his stubble-covered cheeks. She ached at the familiarity of him, of touching him like this. She loved it. She felt weightless with the beauty of it.
Bowing her head, Cuddy kissed him, breathy soft, and he kissed her back. He returned the tender caresses of her lips just as she gave them. His right hand came to rest on her waist, slid up just beneath the hem of her shirt and caressed her lower back.
Cuddy could have cried at the contact. It had been too long since anyone had touched her, even longer since he had. She did cry when she heard him say her name, a longing whisper against his mouth.
Easing back, she met his searching eyes and saw in him what she felt, the need, the ache for each other. The intrinsic need for love.
Cuddy wished they were in the other room, in the bed. She wanted to take him inside her and give herself up to what was flowing between them. She wanted to feel his skin against hers. She wanted to touch and be touched. She wanted to kiss him until she could no longer breathe, to love and be loved in the way she'd only ever known with him.
It was crazy. It was beyond foolhardy. But she wanted it and he knew it.
