A/N: We now arrive at Friday morning. 24 hours until THE showdown. :) Thanks for all the reviews.
(H/C)
It was a long, weary night in the ICU room. Foreman looked in every hour or so, obviously keeping a close eye on this patient who mattered so much to his boss. There were really no changes, though. Mark was absolutely still, looking more unconscious than asleep even after the sedatives would have worn off. He wasn't showing improvement yet, but as Foreman told the family once, the fact that he was not getting worse was encouraging, since he had been steadily and rapidly getting worse all day yesterday. About 3:00 a.m., Jensen thought he could tell a change, although he had nothing but instinct to base it on, and he told Pam that he thought the treatment was working. She was reassured somewhat; she had seen many examples of that twin instinct in action over the years. But she still needed to see improvement for herself.
At 5:10, Jensen was keeping watch while Pam slept for a little while, not that you really could sleep soundly in the chairs. Suddenly, he knew that Mark was starting to wake up, and he reached over to shake her. She came awake groggily, looked at her watch, and realized that it wasn't the end of her nap yet. Alarm hit immediately. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he assured her. "He's waking up."
She came to her feet, getting closer to her husband. To all appearances, he still looked out, but she didn't question Jensen's analysis. Jensen stood up himself but let her take the lead position. Pam waited until Mark started to shift slightly, the eyelids fluttering, and then, impatience and worry getting the best of her, she couldn't resist grabbing his shoulder to give him a shake and hurry the verdict along. "Mark?"
He reacted, moving away from her hands, and she flinched. Jensen waited, anxiety battling instinct. He knew that Mark was just responding to being woken up by anybody, that that hadn't been aimed at Pam specifically, but he also knew there was no point in telling her that. They'd find out more in a minute anyway. Pam took a deep breath and tightened her grip on her husband's shoulder. "Mark?"
Slowly his eyes opened, eyes that looked nothing like usual. He looked weak, tired, and ill. They shifted over quickly to focus on his family at the side of the bed. "How are you feeling?" Pam asked after a few seconds.
He looked away, dodging as much as he could physically at the moment. His voice was soft as if it, too, were exhausted, but the words were perfectly clear. "I'm fine. Just a little tired is all."
Pam and Jensen both immediately broke out in ear-to-ear smiles. Mark was back.
(H/C)
House snapped awake abruptly, bolting up from a nightmare of John and Cuddy both in chorus explaining how much and why they were disappointed in him. In the next moment, he doubled over in bed, his hands seizing his thigh as his leg went into a full-blown spasm. Even through the pain, he realized that he was in bed alone. Cuddy was gone. He clawed frantically at his leg, trying to ease the muscle, but the leg had decided that his convulsive awakening was the last straw after its insults last night, and it had no intention of quieting down. House squeezed his eyes shut, but he still felt involuntary tears escaping simply from the pain. His regular meds were in the nightstand to his right, but regular meds did not include antispasmodics, and there was no way he could walk to their bathroom to get anything else. Helpless, frustrated, and hurting, he simply kept trying to massage the spasm out. There was nothing else he could do.
The bedroom door opened a few minutes later, and Cuddy slipped in softly, coming to get work clothes for the day after her regular yoga workout. She was moving on tip-toe that first step, but even in the dim light from the street through the window, she saw enough. "Greg!" Urgently, she raced across the room and switched on the nightstand lamp. Her hands joined his on his leg, but she quickly realized how bad the spasm was, and she let go, running into their bathroom to the locked medicine cabinet with further supplies. She fixed an injection of diazepam and then raced back to the bed.
"Not much," House managed through gritted teeth. "Got . . . to work . . . today."
She plunged the needle home. "Just diazepam, not morphine." Even though it was technically a sedative, diazepam never hit House mentally nearly as much as the morphine did. "Just relax, Greg." She set the syringe aside and then resumed her massage of the leg. House gave up and lay back, his eyes closed. He was sweating, his breathing ragged.
Gradually, the medicine and the massage took effect, and the leg settled down to a medium grumble from its scream. House just lay there catching his breath, enjoying the sensation of less pain and even more enjoying Cuddy's hands. Right now, it almost seemed normal between them, her concern and affection obvious. The gentle, caring, familiar touch from her was almost worth the pain. He didn't want to open his eyes and end it.
Unfortunately, she could feel the progressive release of the cramped muscles as well as he could. She knew he was feeling better. "What happened?" she asked. "You were sound asleep when the clock went off 30 minutes ago."
"Moved too fast," he said shortly.
She studied him, then realized with a surge of guilt. "I hurt you last night, didn't I? We got a little too rough, and that's why it's hurting this morning."
He opened his eyes, his masculine pride still annoyed at that point. She hadn't mentioned pinning him to the mattress most of the night; she obviously wasn't aware of that. But yes, the enforced immobilization after that extreme workout, plus of course waking up as he had, had formed a perfect storm for his leg. He probably would have had a spasm this morning even if he'd tried to get out of bed gradually. "It doesn't matter. I enjoyed it." He hadn't, though, not really. Not just because of feeling physically left behind but because she had seemed almost possessed, and part of his mind couldn't help running a differential on the difference, trying to diagnose it and prescribe the correct drug.
Cuddy sat down on the edge of the bed, gripping his hands tightly. "It does matter, Greg. I hurt you. I am so, so sorry." She leaned over to kiss him, but even the kiss was guilty. "Oh, Greg, I didn't mean that. I wasn't thinking about your leg."
House shook his head in annoyance. Yes, that was exactly the primary thought she would no doubt have next time, to be careful of his leg. One reason sex between them was so marvelous was that she was not thinking about his leg. They adjusted and accommodated it but on a level below conscious thought, an automatic fitting together of two souls, scars and all. He didn't want her always thinking and worrying about it while they made love. "Lisa, it isn't a big deal. We got carried away, but I don't want you just feeling sorry for the poor cripple, either."
He saw the lightning - even if guilty lightning - flash in her eyes. "Greg, you are not just a poor cripple, and I am not feeling sorry for you when we have sex."
"Then please, just drop it." His tone was almost as tense as his leg had been a minute ago. He couldn't take this conversation on top of everything else.
She hesitated, still with guilt dripping off her whole posture, but at least she didn't say anything else directly. Part of him couldn't help noting the irony that out of all things in the last week from her that had hurt, she was apologizing this morning for how she had had sex with him. Yes, it had hurt, but had he been making a list, that wouldn't have even made the top five. She stood up briskly, obviously having settled on trying to make it up to him instead. "I'll go fill up the hot tub, Greg. You have time for another hot soak before getting ready for work, and it will help." She turned and left the room.
House sighed. And good morning to the universe, he thought sardonically. Friday had only been going on for a few minutes (he refused to count the early morning hours before he had gotten to sleep), but it sure wasn't looking like much of an improvement over Wednesday or Thursday. Furthermore, he felt like leftover take-out from a week ago. He glanced at the clock. It was 5:50 now. He really had to get a solid, several hour stretch of sleep tonight. But before that, the day loomed ahead in his mind. Got to check on Mark. No message about Mark overnight was encouraging at least. House truly thought he had the right diagnosis, but he wanted to see the proof.
Got to keep working on the President; he was sure the man knew some detail that would solve everything and was deliberately hiding it. That wasn't like Mark's case, where House had been tentative and not following instinct. No, with the President, he really was up against critical missing chunks of data, working in the dark at eliminating the alternatives meanwhile. The man was going to cripple himself if he didn't cave soon. House wanted to shake him. Didn't he realize what it was to be crippled? America had in the past had Presidents who were serial cheaters (several administrations), ones who were downright crooks (a couple of times), ones caught in scandals (several times), and most of them had lied at least at one point and been caught out. The country expected their chief executive to be a jerk sometimes. It wasn't worth losing your feet for!
And then there was Cuddy.
House very slowly, inch by inch, moved his legs over and sat up on the side of the bed. Even with the diazepam helping him, the leg turned the volume up a few notches. Cuddy had a point. Another hot tub soak was probably his best chance at being mobile enough to work today. He rubbed the leg for a few minutes, then carefully stood up, holding the toes off the ground and bracing himself on the nightstand. He added weight tentatively, a little bit at a time. Once he was convinced he wasn't likely to fall over in the floor, he grabbed his cane and limped to the big bathroom.
Cuddy was testing the water in the hot tub, which was nice and steaming. "You climb in and just soak for a while, Greg. I'll deal with getting the girls up after I take a quick shower in our bathroom."
"You could get in with me just for a little while."
She shook her head. "I need to move quickly; I'm running late now. You need to take it easy. Those two don't mix in the same tub." She still waited to see him get in, though, worried that he might fall. He saw the thought in her eyes and was annoyed by it. She watched closely, at least not actually reaching out to help, as he clambered awkwardly over the edge and sank into the water. It immediately started its work on his leg, and his features relaxed somewhat.
"Good," Cuddy said. "You stay there, Greg, and try to let it get totally unkinked." She started to leave.
House still wished she would stay. The hot tub simply wasn't as enjoyable alone. He suddenly realized that after her upcoming shower, she would be tied up with the girls, then with the hospital. This was quite likely the best chance he had at private conversation with her all day without risking the world listening in. "Lisa?" he blurted out.
She stopped instantly and turned to face him. She still looked guilty, even while also looking impatient. "What is it? Do you need something else?"
He took a deep breath and launched the shot he had spent over an hour loading while lying awake last night. "I have a deal to suggest. I will go back to clinic duty, all the former hours, work all of them for a year, and make not one complaint at any time during that whole year about it if you will see a therapist."
She laughed at him, sounding genuinely amused, as if he'd intentionally made a joke. "You really are desperate, aren't you?" she asked. Without waiting for an answer to that, she plunged on. "No, Greg. Therapy would be a total waste of my time, the therapist's time, and the hospital's time while I wasn't working. I am not going to do that for no reason at all except you wanting some company for your problems. Besides, you don't need to go back to clinic duty. It's too hard on your leg." With that brisk, efficient, administrative dismissal, she turned and left the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
House sank down into the water until his nose was barely above it. His mind spinning furiously and getting absolutely nowhere, he sat there in the hot tub alone, soaking his crippled leg.