After all that heaviness, here's something a little sweeter (for the weekend ;-)).
This is to everyone out there who is stuck in bed with the flu or a cold or any other illness. Get well soon!
Chapter 30: House is Sick
It is Friday evening, and House is lying in bed, sick. Last Sunday, he caught a mean form of a flu virus, and has spent five consecutive days in bed, unable to go to work. He cannot remember the last time he felt this shitty, incapable of doing anything. All he does is sleep, sweat, wipe his nose, and occasionally make a trip to the bathroom. He feels disgusting, his skin having turned sticky and itchy, but he has no energy to change his clothes regularly, let alone take a shower. His bones are aching and his nose is permanently clogged up, which builds up so much pressure in his head he thinks it will eventually explode.
It has been two months since Cuddy's birthday, in which they have barely spoken to each other. They mainly correspond about banalities, or to exchange information about the kids. To House it feels as if they might as well not be talking at all. Since their last discussion, Cuddy completely closed off to him, and all her walls come up whenever he is around—as if she was in need to protect herself from him.
The kids had been partially eavesdropping on their conversation, so Cuddy gave them a short and probably adultery free version of what happened. She must have told them not to interrogate House about it, because thus far they have not brought up the topic.
On Wednesdays, House leaves work early and picks them up after school. They spend time together at his place until he drives them home after dinner. At the weekends, he tries to make plans with them outside the house. The times he does go over, he mostly stays in either of the kids' rooms to play with them or read over a homework assignment.
He is frustrated, both with their situation and with his cold, wondering when it will all let up—he hardly registers any improvement.
He was in no shape to pick up the kids this week, and he texted them this afternoon that he will not be able to see them tomorrow, either.
He knows he needs a lot of fluids, but the water reservoir he had piled up next to the bed is empty, and he is too weary to get up. He contemplates to just limp to the bathroom and drink from the tap, when he hears someone entering his apartment. For a moment he worries that he might be getting robbed and considers his chances in a fight. Coming to the conclusion that he would definitely lose, he decides to just stay put, and hopes the intruder or intruders will refrain from bothering him.
Then he hears the clonking of familiar heels on the floorboards in the hallway, approaching his bedroom.
"House?" Cuddy knocks gently on the door that is slightly ajar, and pushes it open. "Hey." She gives him a tight-lipped smile when she sees that he is awake. "The kids said you were sick." Her voice sounds empathetic and distant at the same time.
"Go away," he croaks. "You don't want what I have." He is actually happy to see her, but he really would feel bad if he were to infect them all.
"I work at a hospital," she says as she steps into the room. "I'm surrounded by sick people all day. Every day. I have a well functioning immune system." She carries several bags, which she sets down by the side of his bed.
"You'll spread it to the kids," he mumbles, already out of energy to argue.
"I'll scrub before I leave." She inspects the room and he realizes what a mess he has created. His used tissues are piling up in and around the waste basked, his worn clothes are strewn all over the floor, empty bottles and plates fill up the space on his night table and on the floor next to the bed. She sniffs the air, looking disgruntled. "When was the last time you opened a window in here?"
"Breathe through your mouth. It's what I've been doing." His voice sounds odd to his ears. His eyes are starting to burn, so he closes them.
"Are you running a fever?"
He shrugs his shoulders.
"You haven't checked your temperature?" She sounds displeased.
He suddenly feels her cold fingertips brush over his forehead, and he opens his eyes in surprise.
"What difference does it make?" he asks weakly. She has not been this close to him in weeks, and he enjoys her proximity.
"You feel clammy," she mumbles. "You don't look good at all." She vanishes into his bathroom and returns with a mercury thermometer, which she wordlessly shoves into his mouth. "If it's too high, I'm admitting you."
"It's just a virus. It'll pass," he downplays, but he is grateful for her concern. He is relieved to know she still cares about him; that she is not upset enough to let him down when he needs her.
"I brought you chicken-broth and some other stuff. If you want, I can heat it for you."
He nods and closes his eyes again.
She picks up her bags and some of the empty plates to carry them to the kitchen. He listens to her bustling around: lighting up the stove, turning the faucet on and off, emptying the dishwasher.
On her return, she carries a tray with a plate of soup, a thermos filled with tea, and a glass containing a milky, brownish looking fluid. "Sit up," she orders gently, and he struggles to lift up his torso, scoot back on the mattress, and lean against the headrest. The tray has folding feet, so she places it over his thighs. "What did the thermometer say?"
"Burnin hot, of course," he jests weakly, picking up the spoon, and blowing on the steaming liquid. She has added some noodles to the soup. "I'm fine," he reassures her. "What's that?" He nods towards the glass.
Not trusting him, she checks the temperature last recorded in the digital unit of the thermometer. Seeing it, she seems satisfied. "I squeezed some orange juice. You need the vitamins. I added some milk and honey so it won't hurt your throat."
While he eats, she tidies up his room. She puts his clothes in the laundry, takes out the trash, refills his bottles with filtered water, and stacks his nightstand with fruits, juices, and little healthy snacks she has bought for him. She was also thoughtful enough to bring him more tissues and some lozenge to fight his sore throat.
When he is finished with the soup, she removes the tray and returns it to the kitchen.
"There's some more of the broth left on the stove, you can re-heat it tomorrow." He opens his eyes to find her standing in the middle of the room. Her work is done. She is about to say goodbye.
He nods. "Thank you."
"Do you want me to change the sheets for you?" she offers.
She has really done enough, more than he expected her to, and he is about to decline, but a part of him wants to hold onto her, wants her to stay a little longer. "That would be great."
"Okay," she exhales carefully, and walks up to him, handing him his cane. "Let's get you to the couch." She folds back the sheets and helps him up by supporting him under the elbows. He gets a head rush, so she pulls his arm over her shoulder to provide him some stability. Slowly, they start making their way towards his living room. "God, House, your sweater is completely soaked," she notes as she runs her hand over his back. "And you stink! You want me to draw you a bath, maybe?"
He shakes his head. "I can hardly sit up long enough it takes to poo."
They continue walking to his couch. She sighs as she releases him onto it. She dons several blankets over him before she leaves to change his sheets.
He nods off while she is in his bedroom, and wakes up again on her return. She sets down a bucket of steaming water on the floor beside him.
"What are you doing?" he asks as she pushes the blankets down, uncovering his chest.
"You can't go to the bath, bath comes to you." She pulls on his shoulder. "Sit up for a sec." He does, and she takes off the scarf he has been wearing the entire week. "The sheets will reek again after five seconds if you lie in it like this. Your hygiene matches that of Frankenstein's monster." She drops the scarf on the floor and pulls on his sweater. "Arms up!" she demands, and sheds layer after layer of clothing off his torso. "Lay this way," she instructs, gesturing him to face the back of the couch.
He hears water dripping as she wrings something out. Then he feels a wet and warm wash cloth touch his left shoulder. She applies some pressure and carefully runs it over his neck and shoulders before she continues down his back. At first he feels odd to be washed by her like this, then he closes his eyes and relaxes into the warmth and the caress. She occasionally dips the cloth back into the bucket and wrings it out, renewing the heat. She rinses his arm and the side of his torso he is not lying on before she dries him off with a towel and tells him to roll over.
Turning around to face her, he is overwhelmed by her proximity and the intimacy of the moment, so he closes his eyes and keeps them shut as the cloth travels over his chest and belly. "When I'm old and in a home, will you come be my nurse?" he tries to lift the heavy mood. He gets no reaction to his comment, so he keeps his mouth shut while she washes his other arm and the rest of his torso.
It feels as if she is reviving him, making him clean and new and unscathed. He takes in several deep breaths.
When she is done, she drops the cloth into the bucket, and uses the towel again to dry him off.
Something soft and sticky touches his chest, and his eyes flutter open.
"It's an ointment. It'll help relieve your congestion," she explains softly. She applies it with a cotton ball onto his chest in circular movements. "Works miracles on the kids."
The smell of the oils is so strong they actually trigger the buds in his nostrils.
She sets the cotton ball on the table and helps him back into a sitting position to put a clean T-shirt and a clean sweater on him. There is a bag lying by her feet, from which she pulls a pink scarf. "Rache told me to give you this," she says as she wraps it around his neck.
"Her 'get-well' scarf." House smiles briefly. Rachel had it since her pink phase, and only still wears it when she is stuck in bed with a cold.
"Yeah." Cuddy motions for him to lie back down. She covers his torso with the blankets before lifting them up on the other side, uncovering his legs up to his knees. Sitting down on the coffee table near his feet, she peels off his socks and pushes his PJs up so she can scrub his calves and feet with the washcloth. "I'm gonna let you take care of the rest," she elucidates, her right hand waving over the area of his thighs and his groin.
"What if I can't?" he jokes in a whiny voice. He actually feels a little relieved.
"Call one of your many hookers. Or the hospital; hire an actual nurse." She dries him up and puts clean socks on his feet. "Lift your hips," she demands as she pulls on the rims of his PJ pants. He hesitates briefly, but since he is completely covered by layers of blankets, he does as told. She pulls the pants off and puts a new pair on him until up to his knees. She covers him again with the blankets and leaves for the bathroom, his worn clothes tucked under one arm, expecting him to mange the last part without her.
He does, and when she returns he has struggled into a sitting position, ready to go back to bed. She walks him to his room, which she has aired out and turned into a place he feels comfortable in again. On his pillow, a little stuffed penguin awaits him, which he recognizes.
"John says hi, too," Cuddy remarks.
He sinks onto the mattress, relieved to lie down again, relishing in the clean sheets and the soft pillow. He pulls the penguin close to his chest. For the first time in days, one of his nostrils clears up, and the air streaming in and up his nose canal immediately relieves some of the pressure in his head. "Thank you," he tells her. She stands by the side of his bed, pouring him a cup of tea. "I feel reincarnated. Not that I believe in any of that crap."
She nods briefly. "Do you need anything else?"
He looks at her for a beat. 'You,' he thinks. He realizes how much he has missed her in the last two months. He wants to ask her to stay, at least until he falls asleep. He gets as far as pulling out his arm from under the covers, but then stops himself from patting the empty space on the mattress in front of him. One of the reasons is that he has already taken so much from her. The other is that he worries she might deny him. "I'm fine," he murmurs, studying her face closely. He wants to hold onto her image as long as possible.
"Okay." She sounds tired. He can see that she is not happy.
She turns to leave and is almost out the door when he calls out to her quietly. "Cuddy?"
Her posture implodes briefly, her shoulders and chin dropping, before she turns around to face him again.
"I never meant to hurt you," he mumbles. He feels bad for how it all went.
She draws in a shaky breath, and a look of sadness spreads across her face. She pulls in her bottom lip.
He understands her pain, but feels powerless to alleviate it.
They hold each other's gaze for a while. Eventually, her expression relaxes a little, and she slowly walks back to him. "I know," she says softly as she sits down on the bed and takes his hand, which is still lying on top of the covers as if in wait for hers. "I know," she repeats, her other hand settling on his upper arm. "Get some rest, House."
He stares at her and squeezes her hand.
She searches his face and senses his reluctance to let go. The hand resting on his arm lifts and comes up into his vision. Her fingertips touch his temple. "Close your eyes," she whispers.
After a long beat, he does as told.
Loosing his sense of sight only intensifies the feeling of her fingers, which brush gently through his hair. He relishes every second of the moment, her hands functioning like balm for his soul. He has missed her touch so much. He misses her smiling face, too. Most of all, he misses their banter and her friendship.
He thinks he might be telling her some of this as he starts to drift off to sleep, because he hears his own voice travel through the room and back to his ears, but he cannot make out the words anymore before he finally looses his hold on consciousness.
