Saturday morning and the return of Wilson. Next chapter is a complex one with lots of Jensen. Thanks for all the reviews!
(H/C)
Music. House climbed back up through layers of clouds, reaching for the surface he knew was up there somewhere. His eyes finally opened, but it took a bit for him to pinpoint the source of the music. It stopped just as he opened his eyes, but after a minute, it started up again.
His cell phone on the nightstand was going off - Cuddy had obviously automatically emptied his pockets after taking off his clothes last night, since their entire contents sat there. The cell phone was lit up, demanding attention. Dancing Queen.
House reached for it, still feeling somewhat foggy. This wasn't a reaction to the sleeping pill, which normally left him feeling refreshed after several hours of sleep, and Vicodin didn't do this to him, either. He had always appreciated the fact that unlike some other narcotics tried after the infarction, Vicodin did not cloud his thoughts or interfere with diagnostic clarity. Cuddy must have given him something more last night after he finally had agreed to take the meds. He clicked the phone on. "'lo," he said, his voice sounding as gravely as his mouth felt.
"House?" Wilson sounded agitated. "Sorry I woke you up . . . I mean, I apologize."
Sorry. House remembered the stairs from his dreams last night. Falling down with not only his father's insincere apology but with the entire world as an audience watching every painful bump along his tumbling way. He shuddered, and his leg twinged sharply, reaffirming that yesterday's events hadn't just been another nightmare.
"House?" Wilson was squawking in his ear. "Are you listening?"
House blinked. Wilson. "What?"
"Are you listening? I'm kind of having a crisis here."
Having a crisis. The current situation qualified as a crisis if he'd ever seen one. How could he possibly fix what he'd set into motion? His mind seemed to be working annoyingly slowly, and although he tried to think of something, no convenient solution popped up. Not just him, but all of them. His family was being dragged into it along with him as innocent casualties in the war. Where were they, anyway? House looked over at the closed bedroom door, then at the clock. Cuddy had definitely topped him off last night and then left him to sleep away the whole morning. If he'd had any emotion to spare, her actions might have irritated him. As it was, he just felt numb.
". . . and it just happened. I didn't mean for it to."
"What just happened?" House asked, suddenly confused. Wilson was cutting in and out of his thoughts like a radio station almost at the limit of reception.
"Haven't you heard a word I said? Last night kind of got away from me. Things just all led into each other, like I was only along for the ride."
"Tell me about it."
"That's what I'm trying to do." The oncologist was getting frustrated. "I can tell I just woke you up, but even so . . . wait a minute. You're partway drugged, aren't you?"
House ran a differential, his thoughts hovering detached somewhere above his body and inspecting it as he would a patient's case. Tendrils of fog not quite burned off. Leg annoyed but not quite as bad as he would have expected this morning, at least as long as he hadn't really moved yet. Dry mouth. Sustained-release morphine. "I think so," he agreed.
"You think so? You took something and don't remember?"
"No, I think somebody else gave it to me." Pretty sure of it, in fact.
Wilson sighed. "Are you even capable of a conversation right now?"
"Not sure, but I'll bet the world is just waiting to talk about everything with me, so I'm going to get one, probably several, like it or not." The world pressed in closer on his perceptions, as if agreeing and eager to start dissecting his life. The fog was slowly lifting a bit, though visibility was still not 100%.
"What would the whole world be just waiting to talk to you about on a Saturday?"
"Chandler is suing us over Christopher, everybody knows about my past, Thirteen committed suicide, and Foreman attacked me," House replied almost conversationally.
Wilson was making incoherent noises on the other end of the phone for a few seconds. "Are you hallucinating?" he asked, almost sounding hopeful that that was the case.
House shared the sentiment. "I wish."
"Thirteen . . . and what did you mean, everybody knows?"
House closed his eyes, wishing he could recapture sleep - minus nightmares - and push this new reality off a little longer. "Like I said, the whole world knows. Chandler listed the abuse with a few choice details in the lawsuit, accused me of medical homicide because I was too distracted to do my job, and had copies of the papers sent all around the hospital."
"And Thirteen committed suicide?"
"Yes. What's your crisis?" He suddenly felt a ripple of concern for Wilson through the overwhelming guilt over current events. Why had the oncologist called him again? He had sounded upset, although House still wasn't sure about what.
Wilson sighed. "Never mind. I don't think I'm having one after all. I'll be back to Princeton soon as I can get a plane." The oncologist hung up.
House put the cell phone back on the nightstand and then lay there passively in the bed, too weighed down by last night's events to move, feeling the drugs slowly wearing off. He stared at the opposite wall with his eyes open but near unblinking, his thoughts his only company.
(H/C)
Cuddy was in the kitchen, trying to get a casserole ready to go in the oven. In about another 20 minutes, she would go wake up House. The drugs should be wearing off, but he wouldn't be waking up without some stimulus quite yet. She and Jensen had agreed that he didn't need to wake up alone this morning, to try to prevent an opportunity for him immediately to start brooding on the events of yesterday, especially while he was still feeling the residual lassitude of drugs. She wanted his first impressions of the day to be her presence, love, and reassurance. But Rachel insisted on trying to "help" with lunch, which was slowing things down. Rachel had been demanding more attention than usual ever since Cuddy got up, as if she sensed something uneasy in the atmosphere. Cuddy tried to pacify her daughter while keeping a careful eye on the clock. If she had to, she'd just put lunch preparations on hold and go to him first. Abby sat quietly in her carrier on the counter and watched her mother and sister as if they were far more interesting than television.
Jensen had taken House's car and gone out shopping, needing some clothes and a few things. They had agreed anyway that she was the better one to be with House initially after he woke up, to remind him of the family he now had as allies in his battle. Jensen would return early this afternoon, after House and Cuddy had had a chance to have lunch, and then, while the girls were having their afternoon nap, he would talk to House himself. Marina was unavailable today, as was the backup sitter, so the girls couldn't be sent somewhere else. Cuddy could run interference if needed, but Jensen thought that having the reminder of his family around might actually help in the new crisis.
"No, Rachel. This is your bowl over here." Rachel was sitting on the counter enthusiastically stirring, throwing in ingredients, and Cuddy caught her hand just before she put something in the real mixing bowl. "I gave you a little one of your own. You play with this one."
Cuddy's cell phone rang, and she mumbled something under her breath, hoped Rachel and Abby hadn't heard it clearly, and grabbed the instrument. "Hello?"
It was Wilson, sounding absolutely wired. "Cuddy? Is it true that Thirteen committed suicide and that Chandler is suing you all and sent papers all over the hospital revealing House's background?"
She sighed. "Yes. Did you call your assistant? Did she get one, too? I tried . . ."
"No, I talked to House."
Cuddy froze. "You talked to House? Just now? Today?"
"About 15 minutes ago. I just took a quick shower and was packing; I'll get the first plane back I can. But then I thought I'd make sure he wasn't just dreaming first. He didn't quite sound like he was hitting on all cylinders, and it took him a few calls to answer the phone. Was he drugged?"
Cuddy had been staring at the stove in growing horror. Abby and Rachel both were looking at her in puzzled concern now. "You woke him up 15 minutes ago, and you're just now calling me?"
"I wanted to verify . . . I thought maybe he'd been dreaming after all. What's this about Thirteen? Why would she . . ."
She steamrollered straight over his questions. "So he's been in there awake, alone, for 15 minutes?" Cuddy literally dropped the phone, ignoring its squawks of further interrogation. She lifted Rachel down, picked up Abby's carrier, and bolted for the bedroom, even beating her daughter in a race for once.
(H/C)
They burst through the bedroom door like a troop of arriving cavalry - Cuddy carrying Abby, Belle nosing out Rachel for second place. House was lying in bed in nearly the same position as earlier but with his eyes open now, staring fixedly at the opposite wall. Lost in thought, he didn't even respond to the tempestuous arrival of his family.
"Greg!" Cuddy reached out to touch his foot through the covers. His expression was everything she had hoped to keep him from feeling when he woke up this morning. He was locked into his own world at the moment, and it wasn't a hopeful one. Why hadn't she remembered to turn off his cell phone last night? "Greg. Greg."
He blinked and focused on the third repetition, looking over at her, and their eyes met. Cuddy fought to keep herself from flinching at the guilt and helplessness reflected in them.
"Dada!" Rachel was trying to scramble onto the bed. House looked down at her, his expression softening slightly, and Cuddy, seizing the distraction, gave her daughter a boost. Belle, disdaining such methods, made a clean leap onto the bed, landing with feline pain radar well to one side of his leg instead of on top of him. Rachel, once on the bed, wasn't quite so careful, and he flinched as she scrambled over him. "Good morning!" she said brightly.
House looked at her. The innocence, the bright cheerfulness, as if it were just another day. At least her perceptions of him hadn't changed. Not yet, anyway. "Good morning, Rachel," he replied.
She patted his leg questioningly, and he flinched again, though he tried to repress it. "Ouch?"
"That's right. Ouch. It's hurting more than usual today."
"Ouch," she stated. She leaned over to kiss the blanket on top of his leg, then looked back up at him. "Better?'
He blinked back tears. "Yes, that made it better. Thank you." She crawled up onto his stomach, wrapping her arms around him. Cuddy had finished unbuckling Abby from her carrier and handed her over, and House clutched her tightly, bending his head to breathe in her clean baby scent - and to avoid Cuddy's eyes.
"Greg," she said softly. He sighed and looked up. Cue up the supportive platitudes for the day. He could have quoted them himself. It's not your fault, it doesn't matter anyway, and we can beat this. He was sure Cuddy would want to make bumper stickers of encouragement to paste across the twisted wreck of yesterday's events, but no bumper sticker would be able to hide the fact that it was a twisted wreck.
"I apologize for not being here when you woke up. I'd meant to be." She climbed back into the bed next to him, sliding herself over to join the girls in snuggling against him. "I didn't mean for you to wake up alone. You are not alone, Greg."
"You drugged me," he said, but the accusation was almost numb. There was no fire, no indignation. She would have preferred for him to be mad at her.
"You needed it, but I apologize."
He simply accepted it and dropped that subject. "Did Jensen leave yet?"
Odd choice for his first question, she thought to herself. Not where was Jensen, but had he left. Maybe House just realized as strongly as they did how much he would need help getting through this. "He's gone to the store. He wanted to take a shower, and he needed some clothes and a few things first."
House nodded. No doubt the psychiatrist would leave for good after getting cleaned up. He certainly wouldn't want to stick around after a whole night to think about everything House had said to him yesterday. No, House had destroyed that relationship nicely, just like he ultimately had with most others in his life. At least Cuddy was still with him, had been reassuring him last night that she would go with him all the way through the crisis and beyond, though he had to wonder why at times. And the girls, too. He still had the girls. They were too young to be put off by him yet. He looked down at his daughters, wondering how many years it would take until they saw him truly.
Cuddy didn't like how passive her husband seemed right now, as if the battle were already lost instead of just begun. "How's the leg?" she asked.
He let go of Abby with one hand to reach down to it, exploring lightly. "Little worse than usual, not too bad. I haven't tried to walk yet, though. Probably I'll fail at that, too."
She cringed. "You haven't failed at anything."
"Tell that to Chandler."
"Believe me, I intend to." She grasped his hand, squeezing it, trying for at least some reaction. "We can beat this, Greg."
"And bring Thirteen back from the dead and unsend paperwork?" he asked skeptically, showing the most spark he had so far. "Hell, why not just make Christopher live while we're at it? That would fix everything."
Rachel had been ignoring them, just hugging her father, glad that he was awake now and the mandate all morning of "shhh" could be lifted. Now, though, she raised her head. "Lunch, Dada! I help."
Cuddy smiled, trying to pull House into the spirit of it. "I was fixing a casserole, and Rachel was helping. She had her own bowl and was mixing things up."
He did smile there briefly. "Sounds . . . interesting."
"We did have separate bowls," Cuddy pointed out. "It's not quite in the oven yet. You could take a shower while it's cooking. Or maybe a soak in the hot tub would feel good on the leg."
He shook his head. "Bruising is too recent," he said automatically. "It needs 48 hours before a good hot soak."
"You're right. I hadn't considered the bruising. I was just thinking about the spasms. We can put you on Flexeril, at least." Her eyes flared up. "I ought to fire Foreman."
"It wasn't his fault," House insisted, but his voice was still detached. "He was right. If I hadn't screwed up that case, Thirteen wouldn't have killed herself."
Cuddy squeezed his hand until her own hurt, trying to break through the numbness. "He was not right, Greg, and you didn't screw up that case. You never stopped following medical leads while the abuse was being checked out. You weren't working inefficiently; we just can't save all of them. It wasn't your fault."
"Come eat, Dada!" Rachel insisted. She slid off him, scrambling to the edge of the bed, and Cuddy quickly got up to help her down. Rachel never could stay in one spot too long.
"She's got a point. You not only missed breakfast; you missed dinner last night. Come eat, Greg. A good hot meal and meds will make you feel a lot better."
He sighed. He wasn't hungry, but he guessed he did have to get up at some point. Couldn't spend the rest of life in bed with the door shut, much as the thought appealed to him right now. "Okay, Rachel," he promised. "I'll be up in a minute, and I'll check out your casserole." Satisfied, Rachel trotted out of the room back toward the kitchen. She was starting to learn even at her age that it took him a while to get up.
Another compensation, already starting to be programmed into his daughters, young as they were. Make allowances for things their father can't do. He looked down at Abby, who was looking back at him with an expression of worry. "Dada?" she asked, reaching out to touch his face.
Tears welled up again, and he blinked them back. "I'm okay, Abby." He hugged her tightly to his chest. "I'm okay." His voice was shaky, trying to keep control. Cuddy hugged him fiercely from the side, relieved that he abruptly leaned into her instead of away. They stayed that way as a family knot of three until a crash from the kitchen broke the embrace.
"Belle!" Rachel's exasperated shout carried clear down the hall. "No! MY bowl!"
House chuckled, even if a short-lived one. "You'd better go rescue your bowl before they get it, too."
Cuddy gave him a final squeeze, then picked up Abby and stood. She could tell he didn't want an audience as he got out of bed and tested his bruised leg. "See you in a few minutes," she said. "But if you don't turn up, I'm sending out a search party pretty quick."
Left in the bedroom, House pushed the covers aside and slowly sat up, giving his leg a moment to adjust. It was worse than usual today, but the extended-release morphine hadn't entirely worn off. He studied the marks across his thigh for a minute with ironic appreciation of Foreman's aim. He had thought about using the gating mechanism himself last night, although Jensen annoyingly stopped him, but Foreman had certainly taken that concept to the next level. Trouble was, Jensen was right. The pain was just additional pain. It hadn't replaced the calamity or made it disappear. It had only added to the list of insults. "Greg?" Cuddy called from the other part of the house. "You doing okay in there?"
"Fine," he replied, knowing that if he didn't answer promptly, she'd be down the hall in another six-point-three seconds. Obviously she wasn't going to give him much time alone, any more than Jensen had last night. Part of him was grateful, glad to have one person irrevocably - if incomprehensibly at times - on his side; part only wished that he didn't have to drag her down with him as he went under. With a lurch, probably looking as crippled as he felt, he stood up to face the day.