House slowly limped into the ICU, Cuddy his constant shadow. Gallagher was in Blythe's room, checking her.
"How's she doing?" House asked.
"She's still unresponsive, but intracranial pressure hasn't built back up, at least. We just had to put her on the ventilator. Sats kept dropping, even on oxygen."
House propped himself on the edge of the bedrails. "Between the pulmonary contusion and the multiple rib fractures, that's not surprising." He sighed, looking at his mother. She looked so fragile.
You will kill her, and it will be your fault.
House tensed up suddenly as his father's words echoed, and his leg immediately flared up at the motion. Cuddy grabbed his elbow to steady him. "Greg, would you please sit down?"
He heard the worry in her voice and kicked himself mentally again. His leg echoed the thought as if it had been carried out in actuality. Shut up, damn it. This isn't real. He hobbled carefully around the bed and settled into the chair, bringing his leg up to rest on the next chair. "I'd like to see her chart," he stated. "Especially the admission MRI, but really all of it." Last night at his first visit, he had still been in shock at the realization that it was his fault. Today, he suddenly wanted to try to do something, try to fix it somehow, try to make amends, although he knew the odds that he could help on a simple if severe MVA injury case weren't high. But he had to at least try.
Gallagher nodded. "I'll tell the nurses you can review it, given the circumstances." He had the chart himself, and he finished making notes, then passed it across to House. Cuddy sat down in the next chair, carefully moving his ankle and then putting it back down after she was seated, propping it across her thigh. House winced slightly, but he already had his analytical look on, totally lost in medicine, and she thought he hadn't even noticed her moving his leg, although his body had reacted. House opened the chart and started to review, going carefully from the beginning, and Cuddy looked from his face to Blythe's and back again. She was more worried about him than about her at the moment. This was shaping up to be a long day.
(H/C)
Wilson was in the middle of a consultation in his office when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out, noting the caller ID, and immediately stood up. "I'm sorry," he apologized to the patient. "I need to take this for a minute. I'll be right back." He stepped out onto the balcony as he answered. "House, how are things going?"
"It's . . . we don't know if Mom's going to make it or not. She's still critical. I just went over her entire chart, but . . . I can't do anything. Just wait." House's voice was so tight and crackling with tension that Wilson was immediately alarmed. House didn't sound anything like himself. This was worse, far worse, than the last week.
"How's Cuddy holding up?"
"She's taking it pretty well so far, I think. I'm trying not to tell her anything else; just her worrying about the situation with Mom is enough . . . " He trailed off for a second there. "I haven't got much time. I'm in the bathroom now; can't talk in front of her. I'm . . . scared, Wilson."
The oncologist had no doubt that House got scared, but hearing him admit it was almost unheard of. He was clearly so stressed out at the moment that he wasn't even trying to hide, at least not from anyone other than Cuddy, and that itself scared Wilson. He took a deep breath, trying to channel Cuddy, reminding himself keep his voice calm. She had been so good in the last two months at handling emotionally charged House and staying matter-of-fact while doing it. Wilson tended to get agitated himself under pressure, but he couldn't do that and spook House away from talking rght now. He clearly needed to talk to someone badly. Of course, what he really needed was to talk to Cuddy, and she could have handled it better. Except that she really did have a bad history with pregnancies, but Wilson still thought that House's dodging must be stressing her out even more, not to mention what it was obviously doing to House himself. He sounded frighteningly close to the limit.
"Wilson?"
Great, now he was also worrying about having scared off his friend. Say something, Wilson, don't just stand here with the phone in your hand like a statue. "I'm here, House. You're scared about your mom? Or about Cuddy losing the baby? You just said she's dealing with things well so far."
"So far. But . . . not just about the baby. What if I can't be a good father?"
Hoo boy. Okay, keep calm, keep calm. Say something. "House, think of Rachel. You are wonderful with kids. You . . . " His call waiting beeped at that point. Damn. He was very tempted to ignore it, but his physician's mind immediately created a whole string of acute patient crises. "House, hold on a second, would you? There's another call; I'll see if it's an emergency, and if not, I'll put them on hold. Don't hang up, okay? Don't hang up. I'll be right back. Just a sec." His fingers fumbled with the buttons. "Dr. Wilson. Can this wait a minute?"
"Wilson." It was Cuddy. "I'll keep it short; I only have a minute. House went to the bathroom, and I don't want him to know I'm calling you."
"Cuddy, I was right in the middle of an urgent consult, and I really need to . . ."
"Please, Wilson. One minute." She didn't sound as stressed as House, but she sounded stressed enough that his concern increased. "Just tell me one thing. House said you did a full physical workup on his leg, MRI included, and found nothing new except the ankle. Is that true?"
Wilson's agitated fingers on his free hand were clawing at his tie. "Yes. It's a very bad sprain, one ligament torn, but I couldn't find anything else physically wrong with him. I've reviewed the scan a few times since, too." Perfectly true, because he himself still was having trouble believing it.
Cuddy gave a sigh of relief. "Okay. Thanks, Wilson, that makes me feel a little better. He doesn't seem right physically, but it must just be all the stress with his mother, plus the ankle and that bad weather last week. I hope so, anyway." Her tone was riddled with doubts. "Has he seemed like himself lately to you?"
The tie might never recover from the mauling it was getting now. "I checked out the leg thoroughly, trust me. It's just a sprained ankle. I spent a lot of time on it looking for anything else. Cuddy, I really need to get back to my consult. It is urgent."
"Okay, I won't keep you. Thanks." She hung up, and Wilson frantically switched the call back.
"House? HOUSE! Are you still there?"
House was silent long enough to send Wilson's pulse into overdrive. "I'm here," he said finally.
"Okay, listen, House. Think about all the times with Rachel the last few months. It's going to be just like that. You are going to make a fantastic father."
"Rachel isn't old enough to have done much yet. What if she or the baby pushes my buttons wrong one day and I just snap?"
Wilson was floundering. Damn it, he'd need some Ativan himself before long. In fact, he might take some for all three of them. "House, remember, you will not hurt Cuddy. She's seen you at your worst at this point, and even so, she knows you'll never turn on her physically, even when you aren't fully aware of what you're doing. Rachel knows that, too. And the baby will. You'd be incapable of hurting them. Besides, you are getting treatment, so the nightmares and such will be better by the time your kids are older. They're already better. Jensen is good, and he's helping you. It's going to be okay, House. Everything is going to be okay." He half expected a snark back at the pure optimism and then was even more worried when none came. "House, I don't pretend to know what it was like when you were growing up, but just from what you've said, I wouldn't say your father hit stress points and snapped. It sounds more . . . well, deliberate. Wasn't it?"
He could literally hear House's breathing for a few seconds. "Yes," House answered finally.
"So I don't think you have to worry about snapping. That isn't what might turn you into him. Nothing is going to turn you into him. It's going to be okay, House. You'll be great at this."
House hesitated for a few seconds. "I wish I were that sure . . . okay, thank you. I'll keep you posted." His voice changed so much on the end of that that Wilson was puzzled until he heard footsteps. Obviously, someone else had come into the bathroom.
"Do that," Wilson emphasized. "You can talk to me, House. Anytime. Just call me whenever you get a chance; it doesn't matter when." And please talk to Cuddy before you give yourself a stroke, you idiot.
"Got to go. Bye." House's voice was brisk and businesslike, perfectly even with no hint of the fault lines beneath. The phone clicked off.
Wilson stared at his phone for a minute before snapping it shut. He then turned to go back into his office, for once grateful to tell someone he had advanced cancer, because at least in that situation, he knew exactly what to do.
(H/C)
House slowly hobbled back into the ICU and then froze. Cuddy was in her chair, looking at Blythe, cell phone in her hand as she was obviously talking to the nanny about Rachel. It was her free hand that drew his focus, though. It was resting almost unconsciously on her abdomen, and it was rubbing it slightly. Cuddy finished the call, then hung up. "Rachel's doing just fine, although she misses us. She's . . ."
House unstuck himself from the doorframe so quickly he all but fell over, and Cuddy jumped up and dashed across the room to stabilize him. "Greg, slow down. Please."
"Are you okay?" he asked urgently.
"Am I okay? Let's see, medically speaking, out of the three of us in this room, I think I'm well in the lead over both you and your mother at the moment." She dropped the light tone as she noted his intensely worried eyes. "I'm fine. Perfectly fine. Why?"
"You were rubbing your stomach while you were on the phone."
She had to stop to think about it. "I guess I was. Hadn't even realized it. It's aching just a little bit, barely at all. Probably just all the stress lately." She squeezed his arm. "Greg, I'm fine. I'll pick up some antacid in the pharmacy. In fact, it's almost time for lunch anyway; I'm probably just getting hungry. I'll bring us back trays, and you can take all your meds then. What are you in the mood for?"
He carefully turned around. "I'll go down to the cafeteria with you, to help you carry . . ." He broke off in mid sentence, realizing how ridiculous the offer sounded. "Well, to stretch my legs a bit." Not that that sounded much more plausible.
Cuddy was looking at him like he had three heads. "What is with you lately? The cafeteria is quite a walk, and the pharmacy is even further; you don't need to be doing that if you don't have to."
"I'll go with you," he insisted.
She looked at him, then back at Blythe, and then shook her head, obviously giving up on logic in this conversation. She decided she'd actually appreciate the opportunity to keep an eye on him. He seemed even more on edge than before. "Okay, but we're going to stop and rest at all the benches along the way."
"Fine," he agreed instantly. "That's a great idea." Cuddy eyed him suspiciously, then sighed and turned toward the door. House closed his eyes for one frantic second of prayer to a deity he didn't believe in, then carefully limped forward at her side.