September 8th
"I want to see him."
James watched Cuddy shred a tissue over his clean carpet and hid a wince. The night cleaning crew would be furious with him. "You have to understand what the consequences would be," he said quietly.
"I don't care." She sounded defiant and worse, frightened. "It's been over three months."
"If he really was on sabbatical it could be two years before you'd see him again," James pointed out for the third time. "You'll be risking your career as well as his with this decision."
"There has to be a way," Cuddy said. Her shoulders drooped. "I keep imagining him stuck in that horrible place without-without anyone to talk to, no familiar faces."
"Yes, because no one ever visits him in the lightless dungeons of the Black Hole of Mayfield. He's been completely abandoned," James said, his tone dry. "He only sees me every week." He sighed when she looked away. "Okay. You didn't hear me say this, but you could probably come up during the weekend. Sunday would be good."
"But that's when most people visit, isn't it?" Cuddy said. She stared down at the tattered tissue wadded in her palm. "Won't someone see me?"
"If you try to sneak in during the week, I can guarantee the entire hospital will know about it within five minutes of your arrival." James offered her a slight smile. "The grapevine there works like the one at Princeton-Plainsboro. A little faster, actually."
"They'll still notice me visiting on Sunday."
"Family and friends are expected then," James said. "Yes, you'd be noticed, but not so much." He tilted his head. "Sunglasses," he said. "Blonde wig, Walmart top, ratty jeans, sandals. No one will ever guess it's you, especially in off the rack clothes."
"This is ridiculous!" Cuddy stuffed the remains of the tissue in her purse. "I'm Dean of Medicine at one of the most prestigious teaching hospitals on the East Coast, for god's sake! That should give me some cachet!"
"You're well aware that doesn't apply here at all," James said. "You haven't exchanged favors or privileges with Mayfield, so they won't cut you any slack."
Cuddy started to protest, then slanted a resigned look his way. "Fine," she said. "Maybe we could call Doctor Goldman, see what she has to say."
"She'll say that it's too soon." James shook his head. "House isn't the same person you knew when you last saw him."
Cuddy's eyes widened. "Now you're scaring me," she said, her voice low and uncertain. "Haven't they done anything to help him in three months time?"
"He didn't reach the breaking point overnight. Considering what he's been through in the last year, it's a miracle he's able to function at all. They're doing their best but the problem is he's not sure he wants to be helped." James hesitated. "He may not agree to see you."
"I'll take that chance," Cuddy said at last, and stood. She picked up her briefcase and slung her purse over her shoulder. "Talk with Doctor Goldman. Ask if she'll okay a visit." James winced at the plea hidden in her brisk voice.
"I live to serve," he said, and got up to see her to the door.
[H]
The phone call went just as he thought it would. "Uh uh," Sarah said. "Absolutely not."
"One visit," James said, and tried to keep the wheedling tone out of his voice. "Half an hour, just so she can see him, see how he's doing."
"Jim, no one can see him at the moment." Sarah sounded weary. "He's under observation."
"What-what happened?" James gripped the phone and closed his eyes. He did his best not to imagine the worst.
"Greg injured his arm this morning right after his pain management session. No one is really sure what happened. It could have been an accident, but we can't tell because he's not talking." The sorrow in Sarah's quiet words caught at James. She really does care deeply about him, he thought. "He and Gene have been working on a med regimen and the results have been disappointing so far." She paused. "House may have a genetic marker for resistance to pain meds."
"Shit," James muttered under his breath.
"Exactly. That means the choices could be . . . stark, for lack of a better word." Sarah sighed a little. "Gene's been trying everything he can think of to find a plan that will work, but he's limited in what he can do drug-wise because one of the latest tests came back with elevated liver enzymes. So for now we're at an impasse any way you look at things."
"Permanent, or temporary?" James asked. Dread made a hard lump in his throat.
"That's up to the patient to some extent. He's crammed full of old fears and distrust, and they're keeping him paralyzed. He can't do the work he needs to do. But we won't force him. We can only wait until he decides to take the first step."
"He may be too damaged."
"It's possible," Sarah said. "But we'll give him every chance to find a way." She was silent a moment. "Please tell Doctor Cuddy I'm sorry about saying no."
"Of course. I'll be up this weekend," James said. "Let me take you and Gene out for dinner. No shop talk, just a nice evening."
"Yeah, sure." Sarah chuckled, a soft, musical sound that always lifted James's spirits. "Shouldn't make promises you can't keep, but we'll take you up on it if you stay at our place. It's silly for you to pay for a hotel when we've got a perfectly good spare bedroom you can have."
"Okay, but only if you let me make Sunday breakfast." He couldn't help but smile. "You're as bad as House, forcing me to negotiate everything."
"It's control freakism run amok! Giant robots are next!" Sarah said, and he laughed, as she had obviously meant him to. "So why don't you come up on Friday instead of Saturday? And just so you know, I'm laying in a supply of macadamia nuts and buttermilk."
James groaned. "Don't you ever get tired of those pancakes? They'll make you fat!"
"You just never mind my weight. The skillet will be good and greasy when Sunday rolls around." She laughed again and he closed his eyes for a moment, to take comfort in her company. House really is in good hands, he thought, and felt a slight lessening of anxiety. Whatever happens, she and Gene will take care of him somehow. And so will I.
The worry returned later however, as he lay in bed and chased an elusive calm. He'd found it useful to think of Amber when he had trouble sleeping; they'd often talked together at night in the darkness. It was the first time any woman he'd slept with had done more than roll over and ignore him after sex. Now he missed that intimacy, and someone who listened and responded, engaged in the conversation.
"He's in a bad way," he began, and cleared his throat, surprised to find a lump there. "This may be the point of no return for House, I . . . I don't know. He's . . . he's not good with emotions, and people. Never has been. But this . . ." For a moment he saw House in the ICU bay after Amber's death, pale, thin, bruised and abraded, with Cuddy asleep in the chair next to him as she held his hand. He'd watched James with an intensity borne of the fear of loss. And sorrow too; there had been real apology in that vivid gaze.
"We're trying to help him, but it might not be enough. He's always needed . . . more. A lot more than most people are willing to offer, or even have to give." James smiled a little, but there was no humor in it. "Good thing I'm a needy asshole, he tells me that all the time. You know, it's funny. I even miss you fighting with him over me." He paused. "No, actually . . . don't miss that. What I do miss . . ." The lump in his throat swelled. "I miss you," he whispered, "god, I miss you, Amber. Why didn't you . . . why didn't you tell me about the damn flu, you could have taken a couple of days off, I'd have fixed it with House somehow . . ." He felt hot tears burn his eyes and buried his face in the pillow. "I miss you," he said again into the cotton slipcase, and felt as if no one and nothing else existed in the world right at that moment, only the grief he carried with him.
The night crawled by, sultry and oppressive despite the coolness provided by the central air conditioning. James pried himself out of bed an hour before his alarm was set to go off, made a pot of coffee and took a long shower. He scrubbed down every inch and washed his hair twice. After a thorough towel-off he chose his clothes with care: a light grey linen suit—his only concession to summer colors—white shirt, ice-blue tie, and Gucci loafers. He could be a bit more casual today, since he'd mostly work in the office.
Breakfast felt lonely. He drank coffee and made some toast, watched the news while he puttered around in the kitchen and got things out for dinner. Over the last month he'd realized he brought home too much takeout; his waistline showed the result, and he already spent enough time on the treadmill at the gym as it was. He knew how to cook healthy meals, it would reduce his weight and his budget too. Beer and pizza on weekends was a good tradeoff . . . James paused as he took slices out of the toaster. He wondered if House missed their routine. Sometimes he acted as if it was the worst imposition to come over and spend a few hours. And yet if they had to skip a Saturday or Sunday, he complained and made James's life a misery until they set up an entire weekend schedule of boxing matches, college and pro football, soccer-just about anything on pay-per-view or premium sports channels. And of course, James had to foot the bill for it all.
We'll see how things go when he comes out of rehab, James thought, and retrieved his cold toast.
The morning commute took forever. There was some holdup ahead on Nassau, and the cops had everything blocked off. He couldn't get out of traffic to take any of the back streets; it was hopeless, at least for now. James gritted his teeth and put the car radio on the classical station out of New York, then checked his schedule. He was early, so he had some leeway. He sipped his coffee and thought of House. Was he up already, in line for nearly-useless meds or some breakfast? Was he back in lockdown or observation? James pushed the thoughts away. Pointless to speculate; there was nothing he could do.
It felt odd to enter his office and not find House draped on the sofa with a large cup of his coffee. Of course House was never anything remotely close to on time in the morning; most days he barely made it before noon. Foreman in particular thought it was little more than a screw-you gesture to authority, but James knew it took Greg an hour just to get up and moving; the pain was worse when he woke, or at least it seemed to be. House rarely gave details. When asked he would offer a terse "Hurts" or, if things were really bad, "Fuck off".
It's got to change for him, James thought as he set his briefcase next to the desk and began the daily ritual of work. Hope Gene and Sarah can find something to help him. He needs all the help he can get. He ignored the familiar tug of anxiety, and settled in to look over his case files.
