Nearly an hour and a half later, Cuddy went back into the bedroom. Wilson was now cooking dinner back in the kitchen, and he had brought an entire carload of medical supplies that they had just finished unloading. Cuddy was beginning to feel like she needed to start keeping a fully equipped exam and treatment room here at her house.

Surely things had to calm down, sooner or later. Life wouldn't always be like this, would it?

She wheeled the IV pole into her bedroom and hooked the saline bag onto it. She then checked the line in the back of his right hand, making sure it had survived all the travel and activity today unscathed. He was down to just a low maintenance flow on the saline now, given that he was getting some intake - as much as she could get down him - orally, but they would need the IV port for several more days. The doctors had recommended keeping him on IV antibiotics for a full 7 days after his double crash, vehicular and physical, Friday night, and she was determined to do it. But the running IV line at least would keep him from feeling like such a pincushion. As much as he was on right now, she would hate to have to stick him for each dose of everything.

House was totally out, and she took a minute to study him. He still looked both sick and tired, and the bruises were blossoming in an entire rainbow of colors. She brushed her hand across his forehead, judging his temperature, which was just low-grade now. At least it hadn't gone back up under the stress of the trip. "I'm going to make sure you get well this time," she admonished him softly. "You can't keep doing things like this to yourself." She hated to wake him up, but she knew she would have to. "House?" She touched his shoulder gently. "House? It's almost time to eat."

Weighed down by morphine and exhaustion, he didn't even react. She decided to give him another few minutes and instead took the Ace bandage Wilson had brought and removed the clips. It was a good idea, like most of House's medical ones. The extra support on the right arm would help him use the cane. They could have brought a wheelchair, but she knew that House would have felt even more helpless with it, and really, it was better to have him as mobile as possible, both to help the bruises to heal and to assist in preventing blood clots. The hospital had debated putting him on Coumadin, but given the acute bruising at the moment, as well as what they had called "potentially uncooperative patient and fall risk" in the chart, they had held off for the moment, although they had had compression devices on both legs during his hospitalization. Now that he was out, he needed to move as much as he could. The anti-inflammatories would be restarted tonight, strictly with meals, and he was still on high-dose PPIs IV, along with the IV antibiotics. His labs had been steadily improving since Friday night.

Cuddy picked up his right wrist and wound the end of the bandage around it, pulling it snug but not too tight, giving herself a good anchor, then took the first round or two of wrapping his arm.

House shifted, pulling slightly away, and Cuddy instantly dropped the bandage, which rolled away across the floor. She pulled the end of it around his arm free and then bent over to kiss him, feeling the familiar stab of guilt. Why had she thought it would be a good idea to put something firmly around his wrist without waking him up first? She knew he had been tied up by his father. She kissed him, pulling his head up off the bed to her, then broke away for air. "House? This is your personal alarm clock. Time to get up." She kissed him again.

His reaction was slower this time, but gradually, he came into awareness. His blue eyes when he opened them were not entirely focused, still partly cloudy from the extra morphine. "Mmmm. Good morning."

"Evening," she corrected, pulling away and smiling at him.

"That, too." He looked around the room, slowly orienting himself.

"We're back in Princeton, remember?"

"Course I remember. I'm sick, not senile." She grinned at the note of somewhat-drugged irritation in his voice. He started to push himself up into a sitting position and flinched as the bruises set up a chorus, combating the morphine. Cuddy grabbed the pillow from the other half of the bed and slipped it behind him, helping him sit up.

"Wilson brought an Ace bandage. I was about to wrap your right arm, to help it with the cane."

"Okay," he replied. His head tilted drowsily as she retrieved the bandage from the floor and started to reroll it. "Why was it on the floor?"

"I dropped it. You know how they unroll."

He accepted that and sat unusually quietly while she wrapped his arm and then took a full set of vitals. "Where's Wilson?" he asked.

"Cooking." She checked both of his pupils, and he flinched away from the light. "Are you in there?"

"I'm sure I am somewhere. I think I remember someone giving me extra morphine."

"You needed it after the trip."

"Wasn't complaining."

"You feel like getting up? You really need to move around as much as you can. You can come back in here and take the zolpidem after dinner."

He sighed, debating. He really didn't want to do anything at the moment except try to drift back away to a world without pain, but he knew she had a point. He slowly, gingerly shifted his leg over and moved to sit on the side of the bed. Cuddy got on his left side. "Put your left arm over my shoulders, and you can use the IV pole on the right. You ready?"

He answered by lurching to his feet, accompanied by an involuntary hiss of pain. The morphine blanket pulled down a little further, leaving his nerve ends exposed and shivering. "House? House!" Cuddy's voice reached him.

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay?"

"I think so," he lied.

She didn't believe him for a minute but was glad to get a response. "Okay, let's head for the kitchen whenever you're ready." They slowly wheeled their way down the hall, Cuddy feeling how much he was leaning on her, as well as the IV pole.

(H/C)

House managed to eat most of dinner, under double-barreled encouragement from Cuddy and Wilson, and afterward, after another trip through the bathroom, he collapsed back onto Cuddy's bed. Cuddy got him the zolpidem and anti-inflammatories with a cup of water while Wilson drew up doses of all of the IV meds. House already had his eyes closed before the series of injections was finished. The car trip that day had taken a lot out of him, besides being the longest period of time his still-exhausted body had been alert since Friday. Cuddy finished the IV set by giving him another shot of morphine, then kissed him. "Good night, House," she said.

He didn't respond, already gone. Wilson nodded toward the line of empty syringes. "He ought to have a good night. Ever feel like opening a branch clinic here?"

"I was just thinking earlier that I ought to have my own medical supply closet." She sighed, feeling her own tiredness settle across her shoulders suddenly. "It can't always be like this. Can it?"

"No." Wilson put on his encouraging oncologist voice. "It will get better. Things will get better. Do you want me to stay here tonight?"

Cuddy glanced at her watch. "No, you need to get a good night's sleep in your own bed. You can come back tomorrow morning and stay with him while I go to the hospital and get all the arrangements for the week made. Do you think you could stay here another hour tonight, though?"

"Going to go visit Rachel?"

Cuddy nodded. "Just for a few minutes. I know I'll see her tomorrow, and I've had countless phone updates, but still . . ."

Wilson smiled at her, understanding. "Go on. I'll watch him until you get back."

"Thank you." She brushed the side of House's face with her hand as she stood up from the edge of the bed. "I'll be back, House." She quickly grabbed her purse and coat and headed out.

Left alone with his unresponsive friend, Wilson took another set of vitals, checked the IV, and then listened to his chest with the stethoscope. Not normal, but definitely better. House was hopefully on the mend. "You need to get well," Wilson urged him. "I'm not sure how many rounds of this she can take - or you, either."

House didn't react, of course. Wilson paced the room a few times, restless, wanting to do something, yet not wanting to leave. Finally, he found a notepad, pulled a chair in from the dining table, and sat down against the far wall. His eyes traveled from his friend to the blank pad to his friend again and back to the pad. Totally white and unmarked. A new beginning. So easy for a notepad; you simply tore off the previous page and tossed it aside. So hard for people. He picked up his pen.

"Dear House . . ."