Hello!

I am a few drabbles ahead, which is why I am able to publish one for you today! Hopefully this is the sign that I'm back on my regular writing schedule (which, admittedly, is roughly non-existent, but it's always better than actually non-existent, right?)

This one is set during 4.03 "97 Seconds". Remember when House leaves his hospital room and Cuddy is weirdly wearing a) a ponytail b) seemingly no make-up c) the same shirt as in the S4 finale when she spends the night at PPTH? I came up with something to explain this anomaly.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for your feedback. I will see you soon!

43. You don't have to say anything.

Cuddy had just settled in bed when she got Wilson's call. Late night calls from the hospital weren't all that uncommon, which is why she didn't worry when she picked up. "Doctor Cuddy."

"It's House," Wilson huffed into the phone. She started to wonder who he'd pissed off this time – was it a patient or an employee? – when her friend added, "He tried to kill himself."

Her mouth went dry and she sat up in bed, switching on the bedside lamp – as though it would help her see anything clearer. "Oh my God. Is he okay?" She could hear the loud pulses of her heartbeat behind her eardrums as her stomach seemingly dropped to the bottom of her abdomen. Please be okay. Please be okay.

"Well, he shoved a knife into a wall socket, so…" She gasped and covered her mouth with her free hand. "He burned his hand pretty badly. His heart stopped for a minute and he's still unconscious."

Cuddy was suddenly aware of Wilson's annoyed tone and erratic breathing – she pictured him putting clothes back on, struggling to slip his sock on while holding his phone to his ear. "Are you going back to the hospital?" she asked.

"Yeah. His patient doesn't have cancer after all. I have to run his differential."

So House is going to be alone.

"I figured you'd want to know if one of your department heads tried to kill himself."

"Right. Yes. Thank you for calling, Wilson. Let me know if there's any change."

Wilson bid her goodnight and hung up. Cuddy let her arm drop along her torso and tried to gather her thoughts. She remembered that he'd asked her earlier why someone would voluntarily shove a metal object into a socket, and she'd dismissed him, thinking he was just being… House.

God, how long had he been thinking about that?

What if he'd…?

Her questions didn't bring her any answers, if anything they brought more questions. But she knew that she wanted – needed – to be near him. She couldn't just go back to sleep in her own bed when her friend – she insisted on the word friend – was lying in a hospital bed recovering from – oh, God – a suicide attempt. Which is why she hastily grabbed a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, and drove to the hospital.

When she reached his room, he had not regained consciousness yet, but he was being monitored. His heart and brain activity were normal. He just needed to get some rest.

Cuddy sat in the chair next to him and sighed, tears springing up to her eyes as she watched his motionless form laying on the bed, the slow rising and falling of his chest the only indication that he was okay. She reached for his left hand, but stopped when her fingertips grazed the burns on his skin. Like Wilson had said, he had burned his hand pretty badly, but all he would need was a bandage and some antiseptic. As well as some pain medication.

She settled for his forearm instead, and dragged the chair closer to the bed so that she could make herself comfortable, and possibly doze off, while she held on to him, expecting to spend the night.

She had a change of clothes in her office in case of emergencies, as well as a tube of lipstick. She could wear the grey top she saved for when she had to spend the night at PPTH. She didn't have a hairdryer however, but a ponytail would be enough to conceal her greasy hair if need be.

House was right-handed. She couldn't shake off this thought. He would have driven the knife into the socket with his right hand, but more importantly, he wouldn't have been able to use his cane with second degree burns on his palm.

Did he expect to make it?

She wondered how many times she was going to spend the night at the bedside of this brash, insane genius-idiot – it was late at night and this was the best insulting but endearing term that she could come up with.

Early in the morning, House opened his eyes and blinked several times, trying to figure out how he'd ended up there. He eventually noticed her hand on his arm and saw her, curled up in the chair by his bed, looking right back at him. It was just the two of them. To her knowledge Wilson hadn't dropped by, but then it was possible he had during the few times she did fall asleep.

Cuddy sighed. She wanted to grab him and shake him, ask him why he'd want to do this to himself, to Wilson and to her, ask him what the hell he was thinking about, kick his ass for scaring the hell out of her.

But all she could do was stand up and gently caress his forehead. "You don't have to say anything. Get some rest."

For once in his life he listened to her, and closed his eyes. Deep sleep overcame him again, and she doubted he would remember this encounter at all.

Relieved that he was okay, Cuddy left the room and headed to her office to catch up on some sleep.

She would kick his ass later.