Chapter 10
Yesterday was hard on all of us


"It's better if you go to the hospital later today, Blythe." Wilson mentions as he spears a piece of Blythe's scrumptious egg frittatas with his fork, and ladles it into his mouth. "It's not going to be – this is so good," he gapes at the half-eaten frittata on his plate.

Now he knows where House gets his flair for cooking for. Seriously. It's phenomenal.

"My specialty. Greg's favourite. I'm bringing some over to him later," she frowns as she recalls just how rapidly he has lost weight over the week. A combination of the effects of the meds, and the pain, they say. "What were you saying?"

"It's not going to be a good morning," Wilson grimaces at the very thought of it. "Physical therapy today."


"Screw you," House grounds out as his right leg is slowly bent, his knee brought to his chest. "It hurts."

"Six more to go," Becker calmly replies as she lowers his right leg again. "You're nearly halfway there."

"Fuck… you."

"Fuck yourself back," Becker cheerfully replies. "We have to prevent muscle atrophy, especially in your right leg. Ready?"

"No! You're… a bitch," House pants heavily, clenching his fists in the sheets. "It fucking hurts."

"That's four and a half. It'll hurt more if we don't do this now. You've been in this bed for more than a week…" Becker remains calm despite his ranting, all the while observing him for signs that tells her that she's really pushing him too far. "That's five done now, only five more to go."

There is no reply. She lifts his leg again, feeling his entire body tense up, his foot going rigid with the fearful expectation of pain.

As she brings the knee towards his chest, he makes a raw keening sound at the back of his throat, then he screws his eyes shut and she can almost see him make himself stop. That's how far he goes to make himself seem un-weak. After that, he's silent and heaving in deep breaths. That's how she knows he's at his limits – when he withdraws into himself; it's time to stop. Cursing means he's still fighting and can be pushed.

"Okay. Take a breather, and then we'll start on the last three." No coddling for this patient – it just makes him feel worse. Best thing is to keep things matter-of-fact, or push him by snarking right back at him. She can almost feel the resentment rolling off the sweaty, panting doctor in the hospital bed. She averts her eyes, on the pretense of checking her watch, as he tries to gather himself.

She was just a rookie when he had the infarction. She saw how he pissed off even the most calm and rational of senior therapists. Then he'd quit just a few weeks later, and everyone was saying that he no longer had any chance at walking – who the hell had half their muscle removed, quit therapy, and still had a chance at walking? Then a year later, he'd appeared back in the hospital, walking aided with only a cane. It was a damn near miracle. He had the willpower needed to get through it, she concluded, but he just needed the right therapist.

Now, as the fifty-year-old head of physical therapy, she is determined to have him recover under his watch. She knows Dr Cuddy and Dr Wilson approached her because she's the right fit – infinite patience, but also not a pushover; possessing the ability to snark right back at him.

No way is she going let him quit on her.

"I think I'm going to be sick."

Hastily, she picks up the emesis basin and places it under his chin as he retches. The back brace that was fitted just yesterday prevents him from bending his back, so the angle is awkward.

She can tell it's time to stop. Without saying anything, she moves to the foot of the bed.

"We'll stop here today," she says as she fills in the chart at the foot of his bed. "I'll see you tomorrow at the same time."

"Fuck you." His arm seems to be flopped carelessly over his eyes, her trained eyes can see the tense way with which he holds himself.

"I look forward to seeing you too," she replies dryly. "I'll order up more pain meds for you."

He makes some sort of noise at the back of his throat that she takes to be a grumbled murmur of agreement (or optimistically, gratitude).

Cuddy enters just as Becker is about to leave. They exchange meaningful glances silently, Cuddy trying to find out how things went, Becker trying to tell her without talking –

"Stop trying to communicate without talking, Becker," House snaps from the bed, eyes still closed. "You, Cuddy and Wilson will have a field day discussing this behind my back anyway."

Becker raises her eyebrows at Cuddy, who grimaces. "I'll see you tomorrow, House."

"There is no need to repeat yourself!" House flings an empty cup at them both ineffectively. It clatters to the floor a few feet short of the door, and he glares at them. Now, everyone is hyper-aware of his weakness from just a few days in a hospital bed. It's painfully obvious.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Any problems with the back brace?"

"You are not an orthopedist."

Short, clipped answers. Cuddy injects a booster, then busies herself reading through his chart, giving him his space.

The hurt must have shown on her face, for he acquiesces, "Matthews is coming by later. But it's fine."

The silence is a gaping chasm once again. Never has there been such tenuous silence between them both – they are usually snarking and flirting and talking. He seems satisfied with things being this way, but she wants this awkwardness to stop. Except, after his… rejection last week, she had no idea how to how to go about making it all normal again.

"I heard your team got a new case," she ventures, "How's it going?"

"They're running tests."

"That's… good."

He nods curtly, and then focuses his eyes on the ceiling.

"You haven't been eating much… You've lost weight."

"Side-effect of the meds."

She's out of things to say to him. A nurse enters then. Judging by the displeased look on her face, she's drawn the short straw. It's not a secret that the nurses jostle over who gets to not deal with House.

Catching sight of the basin of water, and cloths, Cuddy takes them from the nurse. "I'll do it."

The nurse cocks an eyebrow before nodding and leaving gratefully. This will no doubt be all over the hospital grapevine soon, and that is in addition to the rumors already flying about after Lucas didn't pop by her office last Tuesday and Thursday as per his twice-a-week visits, not to mention the huge fight that nearly everyone seemed to have overheard – even though they weren't on the same floor. It seems like everyone was there outside the room during the argument, when in fact, there was none directly outside the door. They might have overheard from the nurses' station though.

Not that Cuddy isn't used to rumors about her and House spreading around the hospital. She's gotten used to it over the years – it is undeniable that there is something between her and House. After all, she perjured herself for him. That was when it all started.

"You don't have to do this," House mutters, his hands grasping her wrists, stopping her from untying his hospital gown.

"I thought it was always a fantasy of yours," she remarks lightly. The feel of his hands around her wrists give her a tingly feeling in her spine. "You can tick it off your bucket list."

She is relieved when he gives a snort. "Right."

"I don't mind doing this, House. Really," she says softly.

He stares at her for a while before somehow, he relents, and releases his grip on her hands. She opens his gown to reveal the rigid back brace that Matthews fit on him just yesterday. The most she can do at the moment while the brace has to be worn 24/7 is apply powder.

He holds himself tensely as she gives him the sponge bath, running the cloth over his long limbs. His right arm is more muscular than his left from years of supporting his weight on the cane, and there is a callus running across the palm of his right hand. His fingers are that of a musician. His shoulders are broad, the right disproportionately stronger. Muscle on him doesn't take on a bulky form – they instead give definition to his lean body. He's always been lean and muscular – lacrosse and various other sports in college – but she remembers the infarction and how he was so thin for months after his body had betrayed him, robbing him of his mobility and freedom. He's put on weight over the years, but he still appears to be on the thin side. He's lost weight over the year, she realizes. She wonders if it's because the pain is at a higher baseline now that he's off the Vicodin.

"Is the pain worse," she can't help but ask, "now that you're off the Vicodin?"

"I'm always in pain," he mutters after a while. "Never goes away."

She wonders just when they thought he could survive without pain meds at all – there is after all, half a thigh muscle missing and severed nerves that fire off randomly. Not to mention aching muscles that are overused and wearing out with age.

She moves to his legs. The left is in an extensive cast, but she knows that it is heavily muscled from years of placing almost all his weight on it. He works hard to conceal it well: when he stands, all his weight is placed on his left leg. His right leg, on the other hand, is a stark contrast. The remainder of his left leg's muscles work extra hard to allow him to walk. His calf is undersized, but what exists of his right thigh is large and bulky from years of compensating for missing muscle. There is a callus at the ball of his right foot, a clue of his inevitably unique way of walking. He used to lurch down the halls unsteadily, but over the years, he has acquired a grace, much like a ship that gently rocks from side to side on tranquil waters. How good is he at hiding his pain, she wonders.

She trails the towel up towards his scar, and she can feel him tense further as she approaches the edges of it. "It's okay," she murmurs. She gently swipes the cloth around the canyon that is the scar, skirting the ridges and valleys in the ruined landscape. She carefully avoids the bandage that covers the deep gash, making sure not to get it wet. She doesn't touch the scar itself yet. The femur is close to the surface, and the scar tissue is thick and unyielding. His life revolves around it – one accidental knock against a cabinet can result in agony. The femur is a strong bone, but without muscle to cushion it, it is still vulnerable.

She remembers the one time just a three months after the infarction when Wilson had to admit House because he fell and sustained a horrific bruise on the thigh that caused him so much agony he couldn't keep food down. The resentment and bitterness had permeated his entire room that time despite his sickly frame, the IV nutrition yet another sign of his weakness – he simply could not afford to skip meals.

Just as she is about to gently wipe the scar, his arm shoots out.

"Don't," he says. "Just… don't."

"It's okay," she repeats.

"Don't."

She is disappointed that he doesn't trust her, but she doesn't push him.

"Okay," she says quietly. "House… I think – "

"I feel better now," he wraps his hospital gown back on, tying the string. "Thanks."

He's not being rude. She can sense the apprehension in him. "House, I know I – "

"I'm tired."

"Just leave."

"I – "

"Please."

Cuddy bites her bottom lip, and looks at House. He's pointedly looking away from her. She can't read his expression.

There is nothing she can do except agree. "Okay…" She adds, "Just… please, try to eat something for lunch."

The inscrutable look he gives her makes her wish she could do more. But she leaves, just like he asks her to.


It's lunch time when Blythe peeks into the room, which is empty except for her sleeping son. A medical journal lies open on his lap, his hands still grasping it lightly. Gently, she pries his fingers off the journal, and sets the journal on the bedside table.

She understands why it would have been a bad morning for her son. The month she spent in Princeton after his infarction (John went back to Lexington after a week) had been tough. Greg, in that way, was just like his father – both tended to lash out when hurt or in pain. Not just physical, but emotional and psychological pain too. She can only thank the stars that her son has a friend like James, who's patient, caring and just about the best friend a mother can hope for her son.

"Greg," she says softly, "Wake up."

As he opens his eyes sleepily, she is reminded of the time she first saw him open his eyes after he was born. Her breath had been taken away – his eyes were blue, so blue. Like his father's. His real father's. She remembers holding him close and thinking, my son, my beautiful son, and not believing that such a beautiful boy could be her child. That was when she decided that she could never reveal the truth – that he wasn't John's son. She couldn't bring herself to ruin the life of such a beautiful boy. She would never leave John so that Gregory would be able to grow up in an intact family.

"I made your favorite frittatas and oyako-don," she unpacks the food, and sets them on the rolling table. The Japanese dish, with chicken, onions and soft scrambled egg over rice with the sweet and salty sauce, is his absolute favorite comfort from when their family was based in Japan. She hasn't made it in years. "They told me you aren't eating enough. You know you need to eat more to regain your strength. Even I know that and I'm not a doctor."

"Mom…" she is reminded of him, as an eight year old, whining and not wanting to do his homework, "The meds suppress the appetite. It's normal."

She places her hands on her hips. "It is not normal if James says it isn't."

"I'm a better doctor," Greg sulks. "My opinion is the right one."

"Gregory House. I know hospital food is unpalatable," she wrinkles her nose at the brown goop on the tray, "and I made the frittatas for you. You jolly well eat it. Do not make me feed you."

She smiles at the horrified look on his face. She knows he'll eat it. He can't resist it. Sure enough, he grabs the fork and narrowing his eyes at her, shoves a piece of the frittata into his mouth.

Blythe hides a smile as she watches her son relax and start to eat without seeming like he's being held at knifepoint and forced to do so. He's enjoying it, she can tell.

"It's good, isn't it?" she innocently asks. "It's been a long time since you ate my frittatas and oyako-don."

Greg is failing to hide his enjoyment. He knows she's a living lie detector. "Yeah," he grumbles. "It's good."

"Eat more then. How was physical therapy?"

He stops to consider her question. "Fine," he answers tersely.

Painful, she thinks. He looks tired.

She's only alerted to Wilson's presence when Greg says warningly, "Wilson. Don't even think about it."

Wilson is lightning fast as he pinches a piece of the frittata off House's plate. House attempts to slap his hand but his reflexes are slower after days of inactivity. He only manages to scratch Wilson, who escapes with a piece of the frittata triumphantly.

"Ow!" Wilson rubs his knuckles, which now bear a bright red scratch. "What was that for!"

"That's mine," House snarls as he watches Wilson drop the frittata into his mouth. "Serves you right."

"You always steal my food anyway," Wilson collapses onto the couch. "Tit for tat. Eye for an eye." He changes the subject abruptly. "The board meeting was such a nightmare."

"What?" House perks up. "Why? What new gossip do you have for me."

"Well Wrenner was against the budget cuts in Cardiology, so Lopez was giving him a hard time, arguing for the budget increase for Pediatrics and…"

Blythe listens with amusement as Wilson and House share gossip. House, from a few days in bed, has skimmed quite a bit of gossip from the nurses who seem to can't keep their voices down. It is quite funny – her intelligent, prickly son, world-famous diagnostician gossiping.

She is startled out of her reverie when Dr Chase yelps. "Ow!"

Chase drops the frittata he was attempting to steal back onto the plate, and House swipes it and shoves it into his mouth. " 's mine," he says with his mouth full. "No stealing."

Chase makes a face. "Then why does Wilson get one."

Blythe looks at Wilson, who currently has another piece of frittata in his hands.

"Mind your own business."

"I practically rebuilt your ribcage and its contents!" Chase protests. "One frittata is not too much to ask."

"Greg," Blythe interjects. "Please pass the nice Dr Chase who did save your life a piece of frittata."

House, to Wilson's amusement, blows a raspberry at his team member and grudgingly hands one piece over.

"This is marvelous, Mrs House," Chase is in awe as he chews on the frittata. "Fantastic stuff."

Wilson eyes House with a vague sense of pride and amusement as he grudgingly lets Chase, who probably has never had homecooked food while growing up, have another small piece. .

The improvement in House's mood and disposition does not go unnoticed by Wilson, who quietly watches the scene in front of him – Chase checking House's dressings, Blythe laughing and talking to her son. They've had trouble for several days getting food into House. He was so sure House was slowly sinking into a quiet depression. But here he was, shoveling down oyako-don and frittatas and gossiping with Wilson, and blowing raspberries at Chase. The wonders of home-cooked food and mothers, it seems.

Wilson is not convinced – is House putting on an act? For his mother, or for us all? – because he has seen House put on acts so convincing he fools every single person. Even his best friend. Like how he hid his hallucinations for days, and how hard Kutner's death hit him.

But there's no harm in enjoying this brief respite from medical emergencies and dying patients and the prospect of tough physical recovery. It is precisely because it is transient that Wilson is all the more determined to enjoy it.


Wilson and Blythe wait outside the room as Matthews and Chase check on House's back brace and various injuries. Wilson had originally wanted to stay, but Chase, under House's orders had been insistent in them both leaving even though there was no real reason for them to do so.

"I'm his doctor, and you're both family," he'd said. "Please leave the room for now."

Wilson, memories of Chase's dressing down still fresh in his mind, had given in.

With a nod to Matthews – one of the few doctors House truly respected and hence didn't give hell to – who left to give his report to Wilson and Blythe, House beckons for Chase to stay.

"So what reason do you have for asking me to practically shoo Wilson and your mum out of the room?"

"I need you to do some things for me," House says softly. "Don't tell anyone, even Wilson and Cuddy."

Chase regards his mentor oddly. He tries to lighten the mood. "Is it illegal?"

House snorts. "I wish. Boring stuff."

"Fire away."

It takes some convincing, but Chase finally agrees to, amongst other things, install the necessary ramps and bars in House's apartment, in preparation for House's discharge from the hospital.

"You can't live alone with your wheelchair and back brace!" Chase protests, "It's just not safe!"

"Yes I can," House stubbornly insists. "Are you going to do it or not."

"House…"

"I'll pay you."

"No! I won't do it for the money," Chase is aghast. It's sad, really, how House is so oblivious to the fact that people do care for him. "Fine, I'll do it. Not for the money, but because you asked me to."

"I trust you, Chase," House says, his eyes on his feet. Chase feels a kind of warmth spread to his toes. Few people gain the trust of House, and he's actually one of them.

But still, it's just not safe for House to be on his own.

"Does Wilson know you don't intend to live with – "

"Strike one."

"I think you should tell him – "

"Strike two. Three strikes, and you're out."

Chase sighs. He doesn't know why the hell he feels so much for House. It's like all the feelings he was supposed to have for his own father leaked out when he came to know House. "I want you to trust me."

"Then don't screw this up," House says simply. "Don't tell them."


A/N: Okay, I am really really sorry about the delay in updates! (Yes, an apology again. It's like I do one every chapter.) So many things have been going on lately in real life. I actually really liked these four scenes, and I hope you do too.