Short but adrenaline-filled chapter. Hope they aren't too OOC, but you do OOC things sometimes when you're rattled.
(H/C)
Cuddy woke up slowly, feeling absolutely drugged by sleep. She had barely spoken to Wilson when she got home last night, just gave a very quick check of House and rolled into bed herself. Now, she woke up with that chilling feeling that something was wrong. She was in her bed. No smell of smoke. Early morning sunshine outside. House was next to her, still sound asleep. She reached over to check his temperature and jumped as she realized that he was cold. Totally, deathly cold. She tried to pick up his left arm, the one closer to her, and his whole body was stiff.
"House!" She bolted upright, scrambling over on top of him, forgetting the leg, forgetting the bruises, only thinking frantically of CPR, even as her medical mind shouted at her that it was already too late. It was only after several futile chest compressions, several efforts to breathe life back into his cold, still lips, that she noted that the floor beside the bed was covered in blood. The IV tubing from his right hand fell downward instead of up and did not lead to the pole. At some point in the night, the tubing had disconnected from the saline bag and fallen off to the floor, thus creating a downward track for gravity from the still-open line to his circulatory system. He had bled out on her bedroom floor in his sleep.
"HOUSE! NO!" She broke down into sobs, throwing herself on his chest, desperately trying to detect any remaining trace of life. If only she had closely looked at the IV and had verified that all connections were secure. But she had been too tired when she got home, had just glanced at House quickly, and had gone on to sleep herself.
She had let him down. She had slept unawares while he died right next to her. She fell across him, crying a waterfall of tears that he would never feel.
It was too late.
RING! Cuddy's alarm clock sounded, and she snapped up awake, jolting every muscle and nerve ending in her body, much like House usually did. Her pulse was racing, her breathing ragged, but she had never been so grateful to hear that alarm in her life. She reached over to silence it, reassuring herself that it had all been a dream.
Then she replaced the clock on the nightstand and turned to find the other half of the bed empty. "House!" She pinched herself to be sure she was awake now, then hit the floor at a frantic run, bolting out of the bedroom. Damn him. Where had he gone? Where could he have gone? He could barely stand up on his own, and while he certainly had a history of escape, he had agreed to this recuperation at her place.
She nearly ran into him in the hall as he exited the bathroom, and she launched herself at him, seizing him so hard that he yelped and almost fell over, his shaky balance unable to withstand that whirlwind. He caught himself, actually caught both of them, against the wall with a grunt. "Don't EVER do that again," she pleaded in a tone that he hadn't heard since he revived on the floor of the bus after his heart stopped.
"Do what? Go to the bathroom? Life would be more convenient that way, but I doubt it would work. Are you okay?" He tried to get a good look at her, but she wasn't allowing him any distance to do so.
"Scare me like that." She buried herself against him, the wall still holding both of them up.
"Um, Cuddy? Are you feeling all right? And could you please lighten up the grip a little bit? I was hit by a car, remember?"
She abruptly realized that she was squeezing him hard enough that even someone without pneumonia plus a whole collection of bruises would have objected. She immediately let go. "Oh, House, I'm . . . are you okay? I apologize. Did I hurt you?" He was literally being held up by the wall, his left arm folded tightly across his chest, right still feebly hanging onto the IV pole, but the sagging body was topped by the ever-active mind, and his eyes were in full diagnostics mode.
"You're sweating. Your respirations are way up, and probably your pulse is, too." He tried to lift his right arm to check her carotid artery and both flinched at the movement and sagged a bit more against the wall.
"I'm fine. Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Here, stand back up." She moved the IV pole back closer to the wall, letting him pull himself more upright on it, carefully assisting him.
"Nope, we're not deflecting here," House insisted. "I'm not all right, but we both knew that. Diagnostically boring; that case is solved. You, on the other hand, have a whole list of new symptoms at the moment."
"I just woke up and saw you weren't there. I got worried."
"That wasn't worried; that was frantic," he insisted. He had stayed in bed for a good 15 minutes after waking up, just watching her sleep, and when he decided he couldn't wait to use the bathroom much longer, thanks to the IV fluids, he had taken nearly 5 minutes gradually prying himself off the bed, working himself up onto his shaky legs, trying not to disturb her. That he could try that hard and still wind up disturbing her this much only confirmed his theory that trying to do nice things backfired.
"I had a nightmare," Cuddy admitted. His expression softened into understanding there. He could certainly relate to that these days. "You were dead," she continued, tears welling up in her voice and her eyes as she recalled it.
"And it was your fault?" he suggested, filling in the blank. "Not through murder but through failing in some responsibility?" She nodded wordlessly. "I'm perfectly alive, see? And you haven't failed. You're doing a great job with everything."
The unexpected compliment, doubly unexpected from him, so closely echoing Jensen's but even more precious, actually did make her burst into tears then and latch onto him with new fervor, knocking him backwards into the wall again. House awkwardly stood - or more accurately leaned - there, trying to stay upright, trying to ignore the pain of her grasp, and trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do in this situation. He would never understand women. Try to be reassuring and complimentary for once, and they start crying. Should he have snarked at her instead? "I'm sorry," he said, feeling totally helpless, not sure what his sin was at the moment.
"I told you not to tell me that," Cuddy reminded him, pulling away enough to whack him on his chest, and then her eyes widened in horror as he yelped. "House, are you okay?"
His breathing was a bit rapid itself now, but at least his humor was intact. "I . . . refuse to answer that question . . . on the grounds that . . . it might lead to further harm . . . no matter what I say." He pulled away from her into the wall and coughed a time or two. "Seriously, what do you women want? Was that the wrong thing to say?"
"No! It was perfect. You were being nice."
"So you assault me whether I'm nice or not, but you appreciate it more while assaulting me if I'm nice," he suggested. "Is that it?" His light tone fell away at her expression. "Seriously, Cuddy, I'm okay. I'm perfectly alive. It was just a dream."
She had backed away a few inches, just enough to study him closely. He looked awful, breathing a bit ragged at the moment, still being held up by the wall, but yes, he was alive. It was just a dream.
Just then, Wilson's knock came on the front door, followed by the sound of the key she had given him turning and the door opening. "Good morning!" he called, then noticed the frozen tableau in the hall, House's pained and slumped posture, Cuddy's tear-streaked face. "Are you okay?" He divided the question equally between them. "What's going on?"
"Ask her," House replied.
"Ask him," Cuddy stated at precisely the same instant.
Wilson spread his hands. "Never mind. I'll go start breakfast." He turned toward the kitchen, and Cuddy and House stared after him, then simultaneously started to smile.
"Come on," Cuddy said, carefully helping him back to an upright posture and positioning the IV pole. "I need to change into something besides pajamas, but first, you need your morning vitals check. No, FIRST, I'm going to check that IV."