Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Glad you guys are still enjoying. I really appreciate your reviews. :)

WARNING: A good deal of course language in this scene. House is angry. House curses when he's angry. The language earns its T rating.

Helpless

August 1999

He really didn't want to do this. But he didn't have a choice.

"Stace," House whispered harshly.

Her breathing was soft and even, the room was quiet and dark—real darkness: he'd almost forgotten what that was like—with just a splash of moonlight through the blinds, and his bladder was going to burst if he didn't urinate soon. He hated to wake her up—this was probably the first sound sleep she'd had in over a month—but he couldn't make it to the bathroom by himself and he didn't know where the urinal was. Dammit.

He hadn't pictured this being part of his first night home.

He'd been fantasizing about soft sheets, a wide bed, no interruptions, the smell of home—just his smell and her smell laced with light scents of food and soap and leather and perfume and cologne and none of that antiseptic trying and failing to cover the smells of hundreds of other sick and dying people—and sex. Maybe sex. And being alone, truly alone: no one watching, no one calculating. Somehow he'd entertained the foolish notion that he'd be better when he got home: not as dependent, not so helpless. Stupid, he told himself. He knew a change of location didn't mean a change in anything but location. But still, he hadn't thought about this, having to wake her up because of his weak kidneys, his weak body, his busted leg. Couldn't make it through the night without having to…

"Stacy," he said again, this time more loudly. He should move, he should sit up and turn on a light so he wouldn't startle her, but the control he had over his bladder was tenuous right now—if he tried to move…well, he wouldn't think about that.

"Stacy," he said at normal volume.

He felt her move, first slowly, just barely stirring. "Hmm?" God, she'd been deeply asleep. Dammit. Damn this body. Then before he could stay her name again, she bolted upright, turned the light on, and was inches from his face. Worried. Scared.

"What's wrong?" she asked quickly.

"Nothing—nothing," House said. "I just—really need to go to the bathroom, but I can't—" he made a gesture to the effect of 'I can't get up' and sighed, "I'm sorry I woke you up."

Hot shame crept up the back of his neck at her expression: she was relieved. Relieved. Relieved that it wasn't something else. Goddammit.

"No, no," she said. It's all right, her eyes told him, I'm glad you're all right. She was out of bed in an instant. "Do you need to get up?" she asked.

"I guess not," House said. His neck was on fire. This was so much worse than wetting the bed as a child. So much worse. The idea of peeing in their bed repulsed him…but he couldn't get up. He'd held it too long—if he moved… "I—um—we brought home a urinal, right?"

"It's not on the floor next to you?" Stacy asked.

"I don't—" But she had rounded the bed before he could answer.

"Oh, crap, I'm sorry—I think I left it in the living room," she said, darting toward the door. "I'll be right back."

So awkward. He hadn't imagined this first night being so awkward. Even with what had happened and the way he felt…not this awkward.

She returned, and understanding without him having to say anything, left again.

He stared at the ceiling. This was home, but this wasn't home. For the millionth time in the last month, he wished he could get up and complete this simple task by himself. Shit, he was still working on getting across a room by himself; he couldn't do this. Might as well be in a damned diaper.

She was back again and all he could was lie there, trying not to listen to sounds emanating from the bathroom: liquid on liquid, the flush, sink faucet and soap on plastic. Then washing her hands. Two a.m. and not a damned thing he could do about any of it. All he could do was feel how hot his face had gotten: anger, shame, humiliation. Couldn't make it through one night by himself.

Stacy returned from the bathroom before he was aware of her. He started when she spoke.

"You look flushed, honey," she said with poorly-concealed worry. "Do you feel like you have a fever?"

He glanced in her direction. That damned plastic thing.

"No," he said tightly. "No fever."

She was silent. He glanced back at her. The way she was looking at him: she wasn't sure if he was telling the truth. He knew she'd been nervous about him coming home with only her to take care of him. But dammit, she shouldn't have to be.

"I just—" he began, trying to explain. He didn't know how to say it. Why was this so hard? "You—shouldn't—" He dropped his hands on his face. He couldn't look at her. "It's not right."

Stacy smiled, crossed the room to put the container within his reach and carefully sat down next to him, cupping his cheek with her hand.

"You're embarrassed," she said matter-of-factly.

He dropped his eyes: yes.

She leaned down to kiss him on the lips. Light and close-mouthed, but lingering and undeniably passionate.

"You shouldn't be," she said.

House looked up at her, searching her eyes. "Wouldn't you be?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, standing up, "but you still shouldn't be."

"I hate this," House said.

"I know," Stacy said. She paused. Then, with an expression he couldn't begin to fathom, added, "I'm sorry."

I'm sorry what? he wanted to ask. I'm sorry you're embarrassed or I'm sorry you have to go through this or I'm sorry I screwed up your leg? But she was going around the bed again and was next to him before he could say or do anything. It was so easy for her to do that: those fifteen or so steps. Five seconds for her, five minutes for him.

He set his jaw before he realized she was watching him.

"It's okay, Greg," she said. "Let it go."

Let what go? he wanted to shout. What?

But she kissed his cheek, turned the lamp off, and settled against him: close but not too close.

He heard her fall asleep, his face still burning in the darkness.