It was bedtime.
Cuddy finished changing into her gown while looking at the closed bathroom door. Her husband was changing clothes in there again. Belle sat with ears at attention on the end of the bed, watching the nighttime preparations, looking like a study hall monitor.
At least tonight, hopefully, they wouldn't have to go through whatever had happened last night. She still wasn't even entirely sure what that was, but she was grateful to the cat and stopped now to scratch her ears. The laughter had helped, and she was sure she wouldn't have slept as well alone, though she hadn't truly slept well anyway. Even when they had made it back to the bedroom finally last night, there had been an unusual reserve about him. A quick hug and mumbled, "Good night," and they had climbed in on their respective sides, and the light had been turned out. She worried again just how much damage she had done here, how shaken his trust was if he hadn't even wanted to sleep with her until mandated to by their cat.
Then the night. That was a different but growing worry. He had woken up three different times to check on Abby, not because of any sound from the monitor but just to watch her breathing. He had actually gotten up at 5:00 himself for the same reason, even though Cuddy hadn't set the alarm for once, and he had kept up the same checking regularly today. At least he had taken a couple-of-hours nap this afternoon, but he still looked tired.
Abby was a separate major issue here for House, as Patterson had said. Was he still afraid of losing his family? She knew he had wondered at times; she remembered the misunderstanding over Hadley's funeral, when he had decided that she planned to drug him and force him to go again, and he had chosen to do nothing about it and willingly submit if that was the requirement to stay with her. But she thought he and Jensen had worked through that one. Frightening to have old ghosts she had thought were buried suddenly coming back out of the grave.
There was too much going on right now. They didn't need two distinct crises running simultaneously. She was even more grateful tonight than last night that her parents had decided under House's reassurance that they could wait another two weeks and visit on Abby's birthday as planned.
Thomas was at least one worry down. He obviously knew by now about her sins; House must have challenged him on the diary during her own nap, thinking that it was the inspiration for the idea of the new car. As Thomas was leaving in late afternoon, he had gripped her in a hug with special emphasis and whispered into her ear, "It will be all right, Lisa." Looking into his eyes, she saw not the dreaded disappointment but simply love and understanding.
Abby had insisted after they ate tonight that her parents needed to say sorry "with the kiss," and that command performance had been followed immediately by her asking if this was still private, since they had said sorry now. Rachel wanted to know what was going on, and her sister had tried to explain that Mama and Daddy were mad like people get at each other sometimes, but they wouldn't say why. Then, with an expression of sudden Housian calculation, she asked if they could tell Rachel instead (with her listening) or if it was private to everybody. The evening had turned into a discussion of privacy with both of their daughters, and Cuddy had again been fighting back laughter by the end of it. Even with the current stress, the irony of these talks was too large to ignore. House had finally forcibly changed the subject by playing the piano for them.
The bathroom door opened, and House limped out and dumped the clothes he had just taken off across the chair next to his side. He was studying her again, as he had last night, and this time, with a little more sleep and under Belle's pointed presence, she resisted the impulse to simply accept her punishment and go into the living room. They belonged in here, arguments and all. "Let's go to bed, Greg," she said.
He moved up to the bed, then hesitated with one hand halfway toward the covers. He still looked like he was running a differential. After a moment, he visibly gathered himself, took a deep breath, and spoke. "Why didn't you want to be in bed with me last night?"
None of her imagined statements from him had been that one, and she was totally confused at first. "What?"
"You didn't want to sleep with me," he repeated. "Why?"
Looking across the expanse of the bed between them, she saw that he was actually trembling, fine shivers running through his whole body. "I wasn't trying to avoid you, Greg. I thought . . ."
He interrupted. "You wanted to go sleep on the couch. Not here with me."
"I thought that you didn't want to be with me."
"Why wouldn't I want to be with you? You're not the one. . ." He stopped short there, but that time, she truly heard the suppressed end of the sentence.
"You thought I was repelled by you? That I didn't want to be in bed with you because of your leg?" He stood silent for a moment, then finally managed a miniscule nod. His body was still trembling.
Light dawned, painful in its revelation. That was what he had been thinking last night? And her prompt answer had been stating, not asking but stating, that she would go sleep on the couch and then turning away from him to walk out. Her reply unknowingly had been precisely the opposite of what he needed to hear, playing right into his fears when simply inviting him on into bed would have reassured him and averted the whole living room episode. The thought was too much for her. "Damn it, can't I do anything right lately?" She couldn't hold back the tears, and she more or less collapsed onto her side, her head down.
After a minute, she heard him come around the bed. "That's not fair," he protested. "Women always go for tears in an argument. It's a secret weapon you have." He sat down next to her and awkwardly put an arm around her, and she leaned into him, the waterworks increasing now. She could still feel the shivers running through him; in spite of his mocking words, he was painfully wound up just now. She simply held onto him, burying her face in his chest.
She wasn't sure how much time passed. She was almost afraid to start talking again, afraid of the words, of saying it wrong. But she knew that this fear at least needed to be put to rest tonight. She pulled away from House's chest and reached for the Kleenex; she, of course, kept a box neatly on her nightstand, always there if needed. She blew her nose, then fought back an impulse to call a time-out while she dialed Patterson. Patterson had said last night that she would be busy tonight, to call earlier in the afternoon if Cuddy needed to talk, but that a quiet family day and finishing catching up on rest would probably help the most before starting to discuss the diary with each other. Of course, Cuddy hadn't known in her call last night that this specific topic would be coming up.
"Greg," she started, "I am not disgusted by your leg. That's not what I'm thinking of whenever we get in bed together. It never has been."
He was watching her closely, his beautiful blue eyes, red rimmed themselves now, looking almost fragile at the moment. She went on. "I just thought last night when you were looking at me that you were so hurt over the diary that you didn't want to even be close to me. I thought me going to the other room was what you wanted and just weren't asking. We had things backwards, both of us."
"So you're not just . . . putting up with it?"
"No! That's not it at all. Is that what you think? Being in bed with you is wonderful. And when we have sex, that's not limited. It's not something I'm putting up with. Greg, you are the best I've ever known. Not were. You are, right now. Not just with sex but in every other way."
The fine shivers that ran through him were finally starting to slow down. "That wasn't why you read the diary? To get more details on exactly how crippled I was?"
She shut her eyes for a moment. "Greg, I swear, if you don't stop using that word, I'll . . . I'm not sure what, but it won't be pretty. You are not a cripple to me. The leg doesn't matter. I mean, I worry sometimes about how much it hurts. But I'm not unhappy with you. It doesn't lessen you. Not to me and not to the girls. I just . . . you never really talk about it. And I get worried. I couldn't resist the chance for information at that moment, but I knew it was wrong. I didn't even read everything. I stopped and put it back."
"Carefully, in as near the same spot as you could, so I wouldn't notice." He couldn't help making that point.
She sighed. "Yes. But I did decide to confess later anyway. I would have told you the next day. I've wanted to all week. But I did not read it to get more confirmation of things I was unhappy about. I was only thinking of you."
He seemed to be hearing her, still hurt at her actions but relaxing at least a little. "So when you picked it up, you weren't thinking about all I can't do? And you weren't thinking about how our sex is?" he asked.
Oh, damn it. She stalled, but he read the answer in her face even before she had time to start framing her reply. "That is it," he realized. "The sex. That's why you read it."
"No. I . . ."
He turned away. "I can't blame you," he said softly. He started to gather himself to get up.
She seized him urgently, harder than she had meant to, even. "Listen, Greg. Everything I just said was true."
"But you did pick it up thinking about how much my leg impacts our sex life."
"Not like you're thinking of. I have no complaints. But I wonder sometimes later if . . . if anything works better for you than other ways. If there's anything we do that helps. And you won't tell me. I have asked you, Greg. I hurt you, that night back in that awful week when I went to pieces. I know I did. I don't ever want to do that again to you. I need more information than you're giving me."
"Can't I just be a man there at least? Do we have to make sex about my leg, too?"
"You are a man, Greg. I meant it. You're the best."
"But with a crippled leg."
"No, damn it. With a medical condition that does affect your life. That doesn't make you less; it's just something we have to deal with. I'm your wife, Greg. I don't want to hurt you."
"Then stay out of my pain diary." He pulled away from her with sudden strength, as if showing her how much there was in his body, and stood up. He took a step, glared at the white cat, who was still sitting watching all this with a stern expression, then went around to his side of the bed. He started to climb in, then got back up and reached over to his clothes, extracting the diary from his shirt pocket. "Actually, here. You said you didn't finish it. I'd hate to have your curiosity suffer." Tossing it onto her pillow, he turned off the lamp on his side, got under the covers, and closed his eyes tightly.
Cuddy sat there for a moment, shoulders drooping, fighting back new tears. She didn't want to cry and have him accuse her of mere manipulation, but she longed for his arm around her again, as it had been a minute ago. Picking up the pain diary, she walked back around and put it on his nightstand, then returned to her side. She got into bed and turned off the lamp, and they lay there. "I love you, Greg," she said. "More than anyone. I wouldn't trade any part of life with you for somebody else, including our love life, even if I had the chance."
She felt him twitch slightly, but he didn't speak. She felt across the gap, finding his hand, and then closed her own eyes. Sleep was a long time coming for both of them.