Floating

Chapter 7

House reached across the table and snatched the cherry from the top of her sundae. "It would be too obvious, so we'll just leave the visual. That real ice cream under there?" House gestured to the elaborate confection on display in front of Cuddy.

"Special occasion." They had made it..or rather he had made it from his room to the cafeteria without the aid of his cane. Cuddy noted that he was slightly favoring his right leg, and his gait was far from perfect. With the right sort of thigh support and long term physio, the limp might be reduced quite a bit more. "How's it feel?"

"Good."

"Pain?"

"Not from the leg. It feels fine. It's good," he repeated as if he couldn't quite believe it himself. Even the morphine didn't completely erase the pain. But what was left of it, the morphine buzz took care of.

"You know you've been of vicodin for a week now." House nodded slightly, acknowledging the simple fact. Cuddy set her hand on his across the table. House glanced around surreptitiously, slightly uncomfortable with the very public physical contact. "House, I'm sorry."

"For?" She noted his discomfort, removing her hand from his.

"For doubting you. About the pills, the pain. You came to me that night begging for my help. To give you morphine. I gave you saline. I wanted to prove to you that it was all in your head. I was angry and concerned. I was wrong. It was even more wrong of me to tell you. In that way. I was cruel. I left you standing alone in my office with that information…I'm just sorry. There's nothing I can say…"

"Cuddy." He did not want to be having this particular conversation in so public a place. "I know what placebo effect is, and I know what it isn't. I also know that pain level is affected by distractions of any kind. Your placebo took some of the edge off, as did the case. But I also knew…know that the pain in my leg is NOT a conversion disorder. Nor was the increased pain due to letting go of Stacy. That pain…" He trailed off, not wanting to go there. "Point is that, yes, what you did caused me to doubt my handle on reality. For a while. Days, maybe. The pain increase became pretty much a constant in my life. Whether I was working or sleeping; biking, watching a monster truck special on TV. Didn't matter. I knew something was going on. I had a pretty good idea as to what. Didn't know what to do about it until I'd read that German study."

"Why didn't you come to me? Or to Wilson? Or even to one of your staff?"

"I did. I went to Wilson and then you with the study."

"No. I mean before. When you were sure."

"I couldn't. You know that. Would you have believed me? Would he? You both thought I was crazy. Looking for more and better drugs. Déjà vu all over again." Cuddy winced, remembering.

"House, Cuddy? How's the patient?"

"Ah, Jimmy. Good to see ya. Have a seat. Promise I won't steal your cherry. Of course you don't have a ridiculously caloric whipped cream festival like Cuddy over here, but, still…" Wilson rolled his eyes.

Wilson's eyes settled on House's cane leaning against the table. "Didn't use it, Wilson."

"You don't say." He was trying to be casual, let House lead this dance.

"It worked." Cuddy was beaming. "Hey, Wilson, let's go hit the discos tonight. You and me, all those beautiful college babes…"

"That's my cue." Cuddy stood. "Dr. Wilson, I'm sure I can rely on you to get the patient back to his room."

"In due course." They watched Cuddy trying to leave as she was surrounded by several doctors and nurses, curious about House.

"So it really worked! Cuddy told me that you were walking a little, but this…And there's no pain? None."

"No pain. Not from the leg. My surgical wounds, on the other hand…"

"That's unbelievable. Are you taking anything?"

"Ibuprofen for the gunshot wounds. Nothing for the leg. Of course the IB is affecting the leg too, but… I'm not kidding myself. I'll probably have to keep taking something. The pain's not going to completely disappear. It'll probably come back to some degree… But right now, with whatever psychological effect, release of endorphins, adrenalin, whatever, the pain level is at a steady zip."

"How permanent is it?"

"Your mileage, or rather my mileage will vary. It can be two days; it can be six months, even a year."

Wilson frowned. "So, it's not a complete fix."

"No. Still, even six months…" Wilson peered at House. But this was not House. This was House nine years ago. There was an earnestness in his voice. Even his eyes were different. House with some remnant of hope? Wilson was sure he was dreaming.

"Can I take a look at the research?"

"Didn't know you read German. Even my Yiddish is better than yours."

"You translated it for Cuddy."

"Ask her then." This was House. Wilson looked at House, puzzled. "I offered it to you first, you wouldn't go near it. I had to go to Cuddy. Think that was something I relished doing? You want the research, ask her. I only offer once."

"House…c'mon. I thought…"

"I know what you thought." House glanced around uncomfortably. "I don't want to do this here. Now."

"You brought it up."

"Your upsetting the patient." House rose from his chair, in a this-conversation-is-over gesture. Rising a little to quickly for his still-fluctuating blood pressure, he sat back down.

"You OK?"

"Great." Wilson noted the barriers were back up with new guards posted. "Ready to take me back to my cage? Don't forget to put the restraints back."

Wilson looked at House's barely-touched ice cream, which had now morphed into a multi-colored semi-liquid sludge. Sighing, he grabbed House's cane, offering it to him. House ignored the proffered object, trying to muster as much dignity and indignation as could be had in a hospital gown. He stood again, this time more deliberately and walked ahead of Wilson.