A/N: Had time to write down another chapter while waiting on work. Things are a bit slow this week. Thanks for all the reviews!

ETA: Cuddy's message to Wilson from Wednesday night is found in chapter 23.

(H/C)

Wilson hurried out of the elevator onto the OB floor. The errand at the bar hadn't taken long, but he had spent some extra time at their place, stripping the sheets off her bed, sheets which now smelled like him and alcohol as well as like her, and putting clean ones on, then tidying up the apartment. It never made it to untidy; he was obsessive about that. But he had tried to erase all physical reminders of last night's failures before she got home to see them. Of course, that had kept him later than he meant, as did buying a teddy bear in the gift shop. He didn't realize the time until he looked at his watch in the elevator, and he couldn't exactly push the car along faster then. He just hoped she hadn't wondered if he'd run out again.

Sandra was slumped in the bed, her shoulders shaking silently, and Wilson quickly crossed the room to her side. "I'm sorry, Sandra. I'm here. I didn't mean to take that long. Just straightening up a few things at home." She looked at the clock in surprise, and he realized that she hadn't even been aware of the time. "Are you okay?" He reached for her, then hesitated, his arm hovering in the empty space between them.

She sniffled and ran one hand over her eyes, and Wilson pulled out his handkerchief and offered it. She took it, wiping the tears off and then blowing her nose. "I was thinking about my parents."

Oh. He knew how close she had been to them. "Were you wishing your father could have seen his namesake?"

She nodded. That and wishing that her father could have seen his namesake's father. She would have given a lot for an objective, even somewhat challenging viewpoint here. "Did you get your car?"

"Yes. And the phone. And, now that I had my wallet . . ." He pulled the teddy bear out of the gift shop bag and handed it to her. "It's for Daniel, really, but I wanted you to see it. I'll take it down there later to go in with him."

A wavering smile appeared as she studied the bear. "I'll go down tomorrow and see him myself. I've been walking to the bathroom and back this afternoon."

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Sore." She ran one hand across her abdomen. "Nice to see my toes again, though."

"You don't need to walk clear down to NICU," he started, automatically falling into lecture mode. "It's only about 24 hours since surgery, and they were going as fast as they could on cutting. You need to take a wheelchair, at least as far as the door before you have to get in scrubs."

"I was going to already," she said simply, derailing his lecture in mid point. He realized what he was doing and stopped. Had to remember not to lecture her; the scales had been completely flipped between them, and he'd been trying to re-establish normal by defaulting to old patterns. If anybody had a right to lecture, it was her. She never did, though. He was amazed sometimes how she could talk about things, even difficult issues, without sounding patronizing. Jensen had been trying to work on undoing that button with him. He had formerly used it as a shield against bilateral conversation.

"I, um, got the phone." He pulled it out and offered it. "I still haven't checked messages; I wanted you to see them first. House said he had left about 30." Wilson doubted it - sounded like a standard House exaggeration - but he was sure House had left several. He'd really rather have listened to them alone, but he knew that she needed this. He didn't want there to be any remaining question in her mind that he'd really decided to come back.

Sandra reached for the cup of water and took a few swallows, then accepted the phone. She switched it on and held the screen where they both could see it. 33 messages. 38 missed calls. Wilson sighed.

Sandra turned the speaker on and dialed voicemail, and they sat there together listening, Wilson more and more wishing he had a portable hole into which to disappear. The early ones weren't too bad, one from the neonatologist, all the others from House, just initial updates on the baby. House's messages grew progressively more worried and then angry as the night progressed. Wilson closed his eyes and cringed. It was all right there in his friend's voice, all the frustration and concern, everything Wilson had put him through. No wonder House had hit him.

The next one was from Cuddy, and Wilson was startled into opening his eyes and actually looking at Sandra before that one was half played. He opened his mouth, failed to find an adequate word, and shut it again. Sandra looked stunned and deeply worried herself. A few more from House. The last one was the last chance message, House telling him he was on the way down to talk to Sandra, and it had Wilson shrinking into the chair again. House obviously gave up after that. Wilson wondered how many messages he himself would have left if House had walked out and stuck Wilson with his family crisis. Wilson knew he would have given up in disgust long before, and the last one would have been a lecture, not a final chance. He was amazed that House actually had left him 31 messages. The other man hadn't been exaggerating.

Sandra's voice broke into his thoughts. "James, I swear, if you ever belittle that man again, I'll hit you myself."

Wilson shriveled another few sizes. He really was impressed with House, not just medically, which he always was, but relationally. "I know. He was there and I wasn't."

"Not only that, he's obviously dealing with a crisis with Cuddy, too. Already was even last night."

Cuddy. Wilson's head came back up. "I've never heard her sound like that. She can be sharp, but not right on the edge of irrational. House warned me to look out for her this morning, too."

"Have you seen her at all since Tuesday night?" Sandra knew about the assassin, of course. It had been all over the TV news.

Wilson shook his head. "I've been busy with you. And then not with you," he added before she could remind him.

"House has to know she's having problems, but still . . . I wonder if we should let him hear that message." If Cuddy was leaving that as a one-time message to Wilson, Sandra also wondered what sort of barbs had crept into her more frequent interactions with House, particularly if he was trying to suggest that she get help. Sandra couldn't imagine that he wasn't trying to suggest that Cuddy get help if she was this upset after Tuesday night, and Cuddy's reaction to any such suggestion was also predictable. Poor House.

"Believe me, he knows what she thinks of me." Wilson was suddenly taking this morning's warning far more seriously.

"Even so." Sandra picked up the cell phone, then put it down. "I won't call him right now. Either he's staying late wrapped up in another one of the cases, or he went home. She'd be there, and he needs rest anyway. I'll ask him tomorrow at some point about the message, whether he wants to listen to it. I've never heard her sound anything close to that either, and I've heard her firing people." She returned the cell phone to Wilson. "Don't delete that one."

Wilson quickly started deleting the others, and Sandra watched him, chewing her lower lip slightly as she did when she was thinking. He took as long as he possibly could on the task, then carefully pocketed the phone before meeting her eyes. He was afraid to ask, but he had to know. "What are you thinking? You know now that I really came back before I heard the messages."

"Yes, you did," she agreed. She sighed. "I'm too tired for this tonight."

"Give me something, at least," he objected.

"I already have, James. What I'm thinking right now is that I'm tired, and I'm hurting, and there is no way we're going to get things solved in 10 minutes of conversation, so let's not try and fail at the moment. We could probably both use a good night's sleep tonight." She reached out and hit the call button. "Go on home, James, or up to your office at least. Your back will be killing you if you sleep in a visitor's chair. Come back in the morning."

He felt a sharp pang. "Don't you want me here?" He saw the flare of anger in her eyes, quickly damped back down, and he knew immediately that it had been the wrong question.

The nurse stuck her head in the room. "Can I get you something, Sandra?"

"A pain pill," she requested.

The nurse nodded. "You really shouldn't let them wear off like that. You ought to know better. I'll be back in a minute."

Wilson suddenly looked at her more closely. She really was hurting and worn out, he realized. She had gone past time for her next pill. She had wanted to hear the messages and talk to him without any chemical component to the conversation. She'd also been crying when he came in, and that combined with fresh abdominal surgery combined with the meds wearing off probably hadn't helped, either. "I'll go home for tonight," he agreed. "But my cell phone is on. I will be back in the morning, Sandra." She nodded, and that time he caught the hope and uncertainty mixed in her eyes. He reached out and bumped her arm awkwardly. "Good night, Sandra."

She relaxed a bit, relieved that he wasn't fighting it. She really didn't feel up to anything more tonight. Today had put her through the mill as much as last night had, just a slightly different mill. "Good night, James."

He picked up the sack with the teddy bear and walked out, not missing the nurse's pointed look at him as she came back in. He had wanted everything solved once the messages were heard, but he was realizing even more that they had only explored the tip of the iceberg. Which was nobody's fault but his own. Wearily, he headed for the elevator.

(H/C)

House turned on the hot tub in the big bathroom and sat on the toilet watching it fill. Cuddy entered the room from a final check on the girls. "Sound asleep," she said in answer to his silent question. "I doubt they'll be bothering us for the next little while." She studied him. "How did piano lessons go?"

He sighed and starting undressing. Might as well feel awkward physically, too. "We definitely need to keep them separated while I'm working with one of them."

"That bad?"

"Abby was amazing. She's not only talented, she's intelligent and intuitive at the same time. And Rachel . . . " He paused to wrestle off his socks. "Rachel isn't. I don't think she's necessarily below average mentally for 2 1/2, but she's not close to Abby's level. Her frustration threshold and her attention span are a lot shorter. And musically, it just isn't coming together. We've been doing this - when I could - for six months since we gave her the piano, and she still was totally lost on some simple things we've been trying all along." He let the frustration pour out into this safe outlet. He and Cuddy at least could talk about this without disagreeing or knocking her into hypercontrol. At least, he hoped so. "But she wants this so much. She was looking at me like she wanted me just to give it to her. I can't." He stood up too abruptly to take his pants off and flinched as the leg yelped.

Cuddy was looking thoughtful. "You know, Greg, I wonder sometimes how much she wants it. She enjoys listening to your music, but when it's just for herself, she likes to bang, too. I think what she really wants is to be like you. The music is just what she associates with you."

House felt a wave of confusion. Of course it was the music Rachel wanted. Music was . . . music was indescribable, the uninhibited language, able to express everything that words couldn't, never misunderstanding, never unavailable, taking all stress and pain and worry without ever wearying of it and recasting them as beauty and order. There was nothing like music. Who wouldn't want it? "It's the music," he insisted.

"I think it's you. Anyway, we agree that Abby is more musically talented. Rachel needs to find something else to share with you that she's better than Abby at. I really think if she saw you doing something else well regularly, she'd accept that as a substitute, and being less good at piano wouldn't bug her as much."

House grinned, suddenly relishing this conversation, this normal conversation between them, working together, talking about their children. It was almost like old times. "Well, let's see. Short list. She can't very well be a doctor at 2 1/2, so I guess I'd better start teaching her video games." That pretty much summed up his areas of competency.

Cuddy switched gears abruptly, studying his leg. "It's a little swollen tonight, Greg. You did twist it some hitting Wilson, didn't you?"

He sighed again. From competency to crippled in one easy step. "Yes, I did. But it was worth it."

She smiled herself but with an almost predatory look. "I need to talk to him tomorrow."

"He knows he screwed up, Lisa. I'm sure Sandra's made it apparent, too."

She finished a gentle exam of his leg. Even now, when he could feel more tension than usual in her fingers, her touch always eased it a little. "Get in the tub, Greg."

He complied, easing down with a sigh into the steaming water, feeling the damaged muscles slowly unknot. Oh, that felt good. "You, too, Lisa."

"Got to get undressed first." She started unbuttoning her blouse but also started pacing circles in the bathroom floor. "Wilson." She made his name sound like a curse. "He didn't just screw up last night, Greg. He abandoned his family. You can't just do that! Not when you have kids. He needs that point pounded through his thick skull." Her fists tightened as if she would like to volunteer to do the pounding.

"Sandra will bring it home better than you could. I agree with you, but it's Sandra's fight, and we need to let her be the front lines."

Right then the phone rang. House started to shift, and Cuddy stopped him with one imperious gesture. "You stay there and soak your leg. You need this tonight." She whisked out the bathroom door, heading for the living room. House wished luck to whomever was on the other end of the line.

It was obviously the hospital, some administrative tangle. He caught the words ER and coverage. Her tone was far too tightly controlled with far too much annoyance spilling over the edges. He settled down into the water, soaking his leg, trying to think again of any strategy that might work with her. Talking to her himself hadn't worked. Others talking to her hadn't worked. Tricking her hadn't worked. He knew good and well that leapfrogging over her in chain of command to take it up with the big dean over the whole university wouldn't work. Bringing it up at a board meeting to multiple people wasn't even an option; she'd kill him right there in front of the whole table full of witnesses. Some of them might enjoy the show, but it wouldn't help her issues. What on earth was left?

Cuddy finished verbally eviscerating whatever poor employee was on the other end and slammed the phone down. He clearly heard the bang through the open door. A few seconds later came a sharp shuffle, a crash, and a "Damn it!" that risked waking up the girls.

House scrambled out of the hot tub as quickly as he could and limped into the hall, dripping and naked, clutching his leg for support. He hadn't taken time to grab his cane. "Lisa! You okay?"

She was standing in the end of the living room right before the hall, looking upright, undamaged, and pissed off. The marker twirled between her fingers. "This was in the middle of the path, and it rolled under my foot. I nearly killed myself." He cautiously approached, inspecting for any kind of actual injury other than to her pride. "I'm fine, Greg," she snapped. "I tripped and caught myself on the wall."

House's shoulders sagged. "My fault. I should have picked that up." He'd been so focused on hauling himself off the floor earlier that he'd forgotten all about the black marker.

Cuddy shook her head. "You didn't leave it there. You had it clear over in the corner." She looked around. "Belle!" she demanded. No white cat appeared. "Bad cat! What the hell do you think you're doing? Any of us could have stepped on that, the kids or Greg. Rachel could have galloped over it and broken something. Get out here!" House saw the underruffle of the couch quiver, then still. He said nothing. He couldn't blame Belle; if he thought he'd fit under there, the retreat from everything would have tempted him, too. Cuddy gave up on the cat and switched attention to him. "You're dripping on the floor. And where's your cane?"

"In the bathroom. I thought you were hurt."

She walked quickly past him into the bathroom, emerging with his cane and two towels. Handing the cane and a towel to him, she began carefully tracking down each drip on the floor with the other. "I'm fine, Greg. Not hurt at all."

Yeah, just fine, he thought. He was afraid to ask about the phone call. He dried off and then wrapped the towel around his waist. Hopefully none of the neighbors had gotten a glimpse of this show through the window. Cuddy took a good five minutes on floor patrol but finally decided it was dry and stood up. "Did the soak help your leg, Greg?"

He had to stop and think for a minute. Yes, definite improvement over a little while ago. "Yes, it did. It feels a lot better. You never got a soak yourself, though, Lisa. Why don't we get back in?" She was a walking advertisement for the need of relaxation methods.

"No, I already started draining it. You're the one who needed it, anyway." She returned her mopping towel to the bathroom. "Let's go on to bed."

Maybe she would slow down there. She looked as exhausted as he felt; he was sure she hadn't gotten much sleep last night. "Okay. Good idea." He went on into the bedroom, exchanged his towel for a set of sleep pants and a T-shirt, and then sat down on the edge of the bed and got out his meds.

Cuddy had picked up his towel and taken it back to the bathroom, but now she came back into the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind them. "Don't take the sleeping pill just yet, Greg," she said as he got to that bottle. He put it back down and gulped down the rest. In the next moment, her hands were on him, feeling, exploring, claiming. "I missed you last night," she said in a husky voice, and House tried to push aside the worry at least temporarily and meet her enthusiasm.

(H/C)

Wilson stood in the hall of the apartment, looking mournfully toward the master bedroom, her bedroom. The only night he had spent there in the last six months, he had been drunk and didn't remember it. The temptation to sleep in that bed tonight was almost overpowering. Just to be closer to her, to be among her things. She never would have to know. After a few minutes, though, he turned to the guest bedroom on leaden feet. He went in, turning down the bed for the night, then stopped. Going back out to the laundry hamper, he fished up her pillowcase from the bedding he'd changed earlier. He buried his nose in it. A whiff of himself, the bitter regret of alcohol, and underlying it all, most powerful, the scent of her. He took the pillowcase back to his own bed with him and, holding it like a teddy bear, soon fell over the edge into sleep.

(H/C)

Jensen and Pam sat silently in the two visitor's chairs, watching Mark. There was no change yet, either positive or negative. He still looked critically ill. Pam gave a weary sigh, and Jensen looked over at her. "You could go back to the hotel room. House has it now; he'll get better. I'll call you if he wakes up."

She shook her head firmly. "I want to see him getting better. I need to talk to him." She needed to know that he would know her. Having her husband completely lost on her identity, confused and agitated, unwilling to accept her comfort earlier had scared her like nothing else in her life. That scene before Mark had been sedated was burned into her memory. She needed to know for herself, not just words from a doctor, that things had turned around. "You know, you could go back to the hotel room yourself, Michael."

He smiled. "Touche. Okay, we'll sit here and watch him together." Even though Jensen was the one person in the room earlier Mark had known, he'd still been badly frightened himself. Intellectual knowledge that the case was solved hadn't thawed into emotional relaxation quite yet.

"Is Dr. House that good?" Pam asked, seeking reassurance even though she'd just said she wasn't going to take House's word for things.

"He's brilliant," Jensen replied. "He never would have left the hospital tonight unless he truly believed he had it." They sat there a little longer in silence. Pam's eyelids were drooping in spite of herself. "We could take naps here while we wait," Jensen suggested. "You get an hour, then I do. Nobody has to go anywhere."

Pam looked at her husband, then at her brother-in-law. She felt absolutely wrung out. "Promise me, Michael. One hour, that's it."

He nodded. "I promise. I'll hold you to it on your end, too."

"Okay," she relented. She leaned back in the chair, her eyes falling shut. "Thanks for being here for him, Michael," she said drowsily, right on the edge.

"That's what family does."

"I know. Thanks anyway."

"You're welcome," he answered. She let herself fall off into sleep, and Jensen looked at his watch, then at the monitors, then at Mark's face. He sat there, a weary sentinel, sharing the watch with Pam as they waited for some sign of improvement.

(H/C)

House lay in bed trying to catch his breath.

He and Cuddy did enjoy a regular and even vigorous, with appropriate care for his leg, sex life, but she had been different tonight. It was as if she had been channeling fear, frustration, something into her actions, as if she wanted to possess every inch of him with an intensity and urgency that went beyond love. He'd been perfectly willing and trying to keep up with her, but she had seemed almost possessed by even more than the things he knew about tonight. That hadn't been making love. He wasn't sure what it had been, but he knew that something other than pleasure had been the subconscious goal on her end. Not that she had been violent, but she had been desperate. As an unintentional side effect, that workout had pushed his leg in ways that they didn't usually, and the pain was ramping up again after the soak.

Which annoyed House no end in addition to the worry. As a man, he felt like he shouldn't need to complain that his wife had been too rough for him. Thirty years ago, he would have loved a workout like that and taken it as a challenge to match her intensity on his end. But it wasn't thirty years ago.

He still hadn't taken the sleeping pill. Maybe, with her sated and finally relaxing, he could slip an extra Vicodin unnoticed at the same time. "Lisa," he said softly. "Not that I don't like you lying on top of me, but I need to get the zolpidem before we go to sleep."

She didn't answer, and he realized suddenly that she already was asleep. She had fallen asleep while he was recovering.

Great. Just great. Now what was he supposed to do? He wasn't still inside her, but she was lying mostly on top of him on the left, fastened onto him like an octopus. Forget getting pills; simply shifting in bed would be a challenge. He looked down at the dark mass of her hair below his chin, and he reached up with his right hand, the one part of him freely mobile, and touched it. Even with the present issues, he still couldn't believe that this was his life, that he had the right to touch her and have her in his bed tonight and every night.

His leg prodded his consciousness, reminding him that there were more problems at the moment than just hers. House tried to reach over awkwardly to the nightstand, to the top drawer that held his pill bottles when he was in bed, but they had shifted more toward the middle in their exercise, and he couldn't make it. He tried to wiggle over gradually in bed. Nope, that wasn't working, either. She was deeply, far more deeply than usual, asleep. This was like lying under a sandbag. He finally gave up and lay there, letting his mind run over her behavior, looking for any strategy that might work. Of course, he knew that this turn-about was only justice after he himself had denied issues and dodged therapy for years.

He himself. Hmmm. He chased that thought line for a while. Cuddy had bribed him to get him into therapy. He hadn't tried bribing her yet. Perhaps that would work. He started mentally shopping, trying to think of some offer that would be so spectacular that she couldn't refuse it.

The hours rolled along, his mind refusing to shut down in spite of his tiredness, his body absolutely pinned and not liking it. She never moved. At least she was getting a good night's sleep tonight. About 2:00, he heard the girls on the monitor. They still needed attention once or sometimes twice a night. With more motivation than his own comfort now, he firmly pulled his body out from under Cuddy and limped into the nursery. The girls seemed delighted to see him, glad to have him home tonight, and they settled back into sound rest themselves after he'd changed Abby's diaper. He stood there for a few minutes watching them, drinking in the sight of his family. Wilson was an idiot; this was better than any alcohol he'd ever tried in his life. His family.

He finally went back into the bedroom. Cuddy still hadn't woken up, which was odd itself, but she was restless now, her hands probing. He touched her, and she calmed down instantly. House gave a quick check of his cell phone - no messages about Mark - then downed another Vicodin and the sleeping pill, although he debated on that. With Cuddy this far out tonight, he was obviously on call with the girls. On the other hand, they had the dose cut way back at this point. It wouldn't knock him out, just keep him from lying awake and help shut down his hyperactive mind, and he knew he had to get some sleep tonight. After taking it, he climbed back into bed, and Cuddy immediately, still sound asleep, Velcroed herself to his side again, her arms coming tightly around him. At least she wasn't lying on top of him this time. House closed his eyes and finally fell asleep.