House pushed the tray slightly away, psychologically more than physically distancing himself from it. "That's all I want."
"No, it's not," Wilson stated, "because we haven't had dessert yet. Chocolate pudding." He took the tray to the kitchen and returned with pudding cups and a spoon for each of them. Remembering House's battle a few days ago with a Jell-O cup, he opened House's before handing it to him, trying to be subtle about it and failing. House glared at him.
"Remember, you just had 800 mg of ibuprofen," Cuddy said.
"Yes, mother," House quipped, picking up the spoon. Cuddy grinned at his tone, relieved that he could joke about it.
"I'm not your mother, House," she reminded him, still lightly.
"Who said anything about you? I meant Wilson." Both Wilson and Cuddy laughed at that one. They shared some light and refreshingly normal-sounding banter while eating the pudding, and then Wilson collected the empty dessert cups and headed back into the kitchen. A minute later, they heard running water.
"Wilson, you don't have to do the dishes," Cuddy called out. "You cooked the meal." Either he didn't hear her over the water, or he just ignored her.
"Actually, he does have to do the dishes," House replied. "He's psychologically unable to leave things alone. They're thinking of making it a new diagnosis. Wilsonian meddling syndrome."
Cuddy grinned, then abruptly looked serious again. "How are you feeling?"
"A little better," House said ambiguously. It was his turn to look serious. "It's a lot to think about. I don't know if . . ." He trailed off.
"It's okay." She moved over to sit on the coffee table, next to the couch, and reached out for his hand. "We have time, House. It's already taken 20 years. Just don't ever delude yourself that all the feelings - or the confusion, or the fear - are one-sided."
"I'll stay here tonight," House said abruptly. "Before the end of the weekend, though, I need to move back to my place. You'll go to work Monday, and I'd just be in the way here with the rugrat and the nanny."
"I could stay home Monday."
"No." His voice was definite. "The job is part of your life. Just like Rachel now. And Wilson needs to work, too."
She realized that he probably wanted some private thinking time, and he would hopefully be more mobile by Monday. "Okay, provided you can get around your apartment all right. But one of us is bringing you dinner."
He rolled his eyes. "I'm nearly 50, Cuddy. Haven't starved yet."
"God only knows why." There came a crash from the kitchen, startling them both, immediately followed by a curse. Cuddy gave House's hand a squeeze and stood up.
"Wilson?" She entered the kitchen to find the oncologist staring mournfully at a wet pile of soap suds and glass shards in the kitchen floor.
"Sorry. One of the wet plates slipped out of my hand."
"Never mind. I've dropped my share." She fished the broom out from alongside the refrigerator.
"I'll get it," Wilson insisted, taking it from her.
"You're washing dishes. After cooking the meal in the first place. You've done enough, Wilson."
He sighed and dropped his voice. "At least the kitchen is easy to clean up. A little effort, and you've got it all finished."
She nodded. "I was just thinking earlier with Rachel that I wished everything could be fixed with a bottle and a few minutes of cuddling. Not that I want to be his mother," she added, realizing how that sounded.
"Trust me, I believe you." Wilson finished sweeping up the broken plate and dumped the pieces in the trash. He returned to the sink and washed the last few plates, and Cuddy started drying the dishes and putting them away. Wilson was right. There was such satisfaction in complete repair of a mess so quickly. People were so much harder. On the other hand, people were worth so much more. Especially eccentric wounded geniuses with dazzling blue eyes.
Wilson grabbed a towel to help, and 10 minutes later, the kitchen was spotless. Cuddy felt guilty suddenly for taking the time and hoped House wasn't worrying that they were talking about him behind his back.
He wasn't. He was, in fact, sound asleep and snoring lightly on the couch. She smiled.
"Think we should wake him up?" Wilson whispered. "His leg doesn't need another night out here."
"No, let's let him sleep for the moment. He won't sleep too long, anyway." She walked over and brushed his forehead gently, then moved to the other side of the room, sitting down. Wilson dropped into the recliner next to her. "Fever's almost gone," she said in a low tone.
"Good. So how did the great conversation go?"
"It's a lot to think about," she replied, quoting House.
"But he wasn't running away full speed? That's progress, right there."
She nodded thoughtfully. "I really didn't mean to spring that on him at the moment. I was going to let him heal up first."
"And then find another excuse, and then another." She glared at him. "Seriously, you are two of a kind. I think this would be a great time to take your relationship on. It might give him something to think about instead of his crappy childhood or his injuries. He's going to have some recuperation time, you know. Give him something positive to work through along with everything else while he's stuck at home."
Cuddy looked at House, seeing again how battered he looked, how even in sleep, his right hand rested almost protectively on his leg. Her thoughts returned to his immediate injuries. "Hopefully the ibuprofen will help some with the inflammation. And keeping up the diazepam for the moment, of course. Maybe I'd better go get the heating pad and put that back on while he's sleeping."
Wilson stood and stretched, feeling stiff and battered himself by the last few days. "I was thinking. One thing I noticed when he was taking a bath is that the leg is kind of swollen at the moment."
"Trauma reaction," Cuddy replied. "We've checked his peripheral pulses several times. Although I must admit, the anticoagulation effect of NSAIDs is a good precaution at the moment."
"That wasn't where I was going. You know, for an acute injury, ice has a lot of benefit. Alternating ice for the swelling and inflammation and heat for the spasms might do a better job of treating both. And either ice or heat would help with pain."
"Good idea." Cuddy stood up herself and headed into the kitchen, opening her freezer. "I've got two ice packs."
"But also three large bags of peas." Wilson extracted them and kneaded them between his hands for a minute. "Between those, we could pack the whole thigh pretty thoroughly for the length of the scar."
"That ought to work." Cuddy shut the freezer door, and they went back into the living room. She gently picked up House's right hand away from his leg, stroking it, smiling as in reflex his fingers curled around hers. Wilson began packing the bad leg. House shifted uneasily, retreating from the cold, and Cuddy's hand tightened around his. "It's okay, House, we're just putting some ice on your thigh to help with the swelling."
Wilson added the peas along the top of the length of his leg, and House gave a jump so sudden that he ripped his hand away from Cuddy's. At the same time, he swung sharply at Wilson, using his left, and the cast smacked into the oncologist straight on the jaw. Wilson staggered back, stunned, as House gave a yelp of pain himself. He was sitting up now, eyes open but unfocused, trying to retreat backwards into the couch cushions. His breathing was fast and uneven.
"House!" Cuddy quickly grabbed his hand again. "Easy. It's okay. It's just us." He whimpered and tried to pull away, although he did not lash violently out at Cuddy to get his hand free. "Easy. Wake up, House. It's okay." His breathing was still accelerating. "Wilson, go get a large injection of diazepam." The drug could have other uses besides relieving muscle spasms, after all.
Wilson had recovered his physical but not his mental balance and was standing in shock in the middle of the living room, thoughtfully fingering his jaw. He jumped at her words. "Um, right. Got it." He ran down the hall toward the bedroom.
House was still doing his best to tunnel frantically through the back of the couch away from her and away from the scattered ice packs. He was sweating heavily, and Cuddy shifted her grip on his right hand a bit to feel his pulse. It was easily over 130. "House, it's me. It's Cuddy. You're safe. Wake up." She batted the remaining ice packs off the couch onto the floor and then ran her hand through his hair, trying to sooth him. He wasn't fighting against her, but every inch of him was trying to retreat. His eyes were still wildly unfocused. Wilson returned at a gallop from the bedroom with a syringe and an alcohol swab, following procedure even in a crisis, and injected House as Cuddy did her best to keep their friend's arm still. They waited and watched anxiously. Within a short time, House's eyes were drifting shut again, although the drug sweeping through his veins clearly scared him even more, and he pushed out with both hands, fighting the oncoming helplessness. Finally, he was still.
Wilson let out his breath in a loud sigh. "I've never seen him have a panic attack before."
Cuddy grasped House by the shoulders, maneuvering him back to a prone position. "Help me get him straightened out." They worked together over their friend for a minute, repositioning him. Cuddy put the pillow back underneath his leg as Wilson bent to pick up one of the bags of peas.
"It was the ice," he said.
Cuddy nodded. "I've seen him use ice packs on injuries before, but he always was awake and knew it was coming. We shouldn't have surprised him like that." She ran her fingers through her hair. "You think his father packed him in ice?"
"I don't know what to think anymore." Wilson sat down in a chair, thoughtfully placing the peas against his own jaw. "I do think we'd better make an effort from now on to never catch him off guard with anything, no matter how simple it seems."
Cuddy nodded. "I'm sor. . ." She caught herself, even though he was unconscious at the moment. "I apologize, House. I'll try to be more aware from now on." She looked back at Wilson and noted the peas. "Are you okay?"
Wilson removed the peas and probed his jaw. "I think so. He caught me square, though." Cuddy walked over and tilted his head to the light, inspecting the injury and feeling for possible fractures.
"It seems to just be a bruise." She walked back over to House and picked up his left hand, remembering suddenly that yelp of pain right after he had connected with Wilson. "This cast is actually dented somewhat along the end." She carefully inspected all of it, but there were no cracks, no damage anywhere close to the break, and his fingers had good pulses. The arm didn't seem to be swelling more, either above or below the cast. "We'll ask him when he's awake how it feels, but I think he just jolted it."
"Are you okay?" Wilson asked. Cuddy had been trying to wake up a frantic House the whole time, after all, including the period when he had been out of the room.
She nodded, and then her eyes widened a bit in realization. "You know, Wilson, he never struck out at me in all that. Even when I had his hands. Not once. I couldn't wake him up, and I couldn't hold him still, but he wasn't fighting me."
"That makes one of us," Wilson retorted, putting the peas back on his jaw, but he was as pleased about that as Cuddy was. Maybe, even in a panic attack, House was starting to recognize that she was there for him.
After that, they didn't talk anymore. Cuddy picked up the remaining ice packs other than Wilson's bag of peas and returned them to the freezer. Then she got the heating pad from the bedroom and put it carefully across House's thigh. He never moved. She retreated to the recliner and sat there looking from the peas to House and back again. You miserable bastard, she thought, whatever you did to him, you didn't win. Do you hear me? You didn't win. And you never will. He's too good for you to keep him.