Floating

Chapter 19

It was a bad night about to get worse. House had fallen into a fitful sleep, still sitting slumped against his front door, wrapped in Cuddy's arms. She was afraid to move, not wanting to wake him. If they were lucky, he'd sleep until morning. It would be soon enough to deal with new realities. She kicked her shoes off, trying to make herself as comfortable as possible while trying to hold the much bigger House.

Cuddy was just nodding off when House began to thrash in his sleep. The abruptness of his movements made her jump. She was now wide awake. "I don't care what you told them, I'm not going to the Academy. I have no freaking interest in becoming a test pilot or an astronaut or whatever else you had in mind for me." Pause. "Yeah, well I don't need your support. Full ride from Michigan. Fine, you'll never see me again." He was shouting. His movements were wilder now, as if he was trying to run.

Then, he was limp in her arms, sighing as he nuzzled closer. Cuddy wondered briefly if he even knew with whom he was cuddling. It wasn't fair, she reasoned, that House should still be suffering the effects of the Ketamine now. She assumed that that was what it was—more vivid dreams. Or maybe he just talked in his sleep.

"Lisa, dance with me. We won't fall off. I'll hold you. No. You're wrong. The rooftop is the best place to dance. There's no one else here. The moonlight is brighter. Dance with me."

"House?" She looked at his face. He was still soundly asleep. Now she knew she had to wake him. It wasn't in her character to be a voyeur. And that's exactly what she was beginning to feel like.

House's eyes blinked open vacantly. He looked a bit disoriented. "Cuddy?" His voice was groggy. "What are you doing here? We were… I'm…" The wave of nausea rose suddenly. House scrambled for the bathroom, lurching towards to toilet, only to retch bile from his empty stomach.

His disorientation cleared, reality came flooding back in the guise of his throbbing leg. Cuddy gave him his privacy, waiting for him on the sofa. She rubbed her eyes. Exhausted, she glanced at her wristwatch. Three-ten. When he hadn't returned by 3:20, she went to find him. He was sitting on the floor of the bathroom, simply staring ahead. His breathing was shallow again. His pale eyes seemed to absorb every bit of the meager light in the room, emitting an odd glow, incongruous in the dark.

"House, how ya doin' in there?" No response. "Can I turn on the light?" No response. She flicked on the overhead light, causing House to flinch.

Cuddy kneeled between his legs, which were sprawled out in front of him. She lifted his hand, noting the racing pulse. "Hey." He finally moved, looking at her for the first time since the episode in his office.

"I dreamt about you."

"I heard a rumor. You know you talk in your sleep."

"Not usually. The dreams. They're very real."

"They can be. The Ketamine…" She trailed off, not wanting to start down that path. "I hope it was a nice dream. Did you buy me diamonds?"

"Hey. It was my dream, not yours." He was going with it. Good.

"I'm almost afraid to ask."

"You said I talked. What did I say?"

"You wanted to dance. With me. On a rooftop?" He shrugged. A weak smile appeared on his lips.

"Guess that'll be out of the question now, huh?"

"You seem to be doing better."

"I'm not." She knew that. He was playing along with her, because there was nothing else he could do.

"How's the leg?"

"Hurts like hell."

"Demerol's wearing off. Do you want me to give you another hit?" He shook his head.

"Not yet. Pain's a five, at worst." It was actually much worse than a five, he reckoned, or would be once he tried to put weight on the leg.

"Don't wait too long."

"First she calls me a junkie wanna-be; now she's pushing narcotics. Make up your mind." Now Cuddy smiled.

"Yeah? You look like a junkie sitting like that on the bathroom floor. C'mon I'll help you stand. Next time, don't throw your cane halfway across the room."

"Oops." He grabbed Cuddy's hands as she stood, balancing against the wall and using his good leg to stand upright against it. She left him for a second to retrieve one of his wood canes. She offered it to him.

"Better styling than the one Wilson gave you. Much classier." She was trying, he had to admit it. "Can you put any weight on it?"

"Not so much." He gasped. The pain was exquisite when he attempted to take a step, even with the cane.

"Here, let me support your right side." He looked at her skeptically. "Hey. I'm a lot stronger than you think."

"I don't doubt that for a second. But I outweigh you by 60 pounds. At least." But she was doing it. By the time she deposited him the overstuffed leather chair, he was trembling from exertion and pain. Other muscles were beginning to stiffen in response to the pain in his right quad.

"Do you really want to not take any more Demerol? I think you should…" He nodded tightly. He'd had a fleeting thought that it might abate on its own; that it was just stiffness; that…He didn't know what he thought. He only knew for certain that Doctor Florence Nightengale over there needed to get some sleep. And the only way she was going to allow herself that privilege was if he were knocked out completely.

"Knock me out, doc." She came back with the kit, thinking briefly of House's morphine emergency kit, hidden somewhere up among his books. Unless he'd thrown it away.

"Make a fist?" He complied. They'd need to think of other options in the morning. The Demerol was only a short-term solution at best. Going back on Vicodin would destroy his liver. Maybe he'd be willing to give the Ketamine another shot. Right now, he was coping. At least on the surface. It was the best she could hope for under the circumstances.

House positioned himself on the sofa while Cuddy retrieved a pillow and blanket from his bedroom. He was half asleep when she returned. "You don't want to take your clothes off?"

"You are one naughty girl, trying to take advantage of the cripple when he's all groggy and stuff…" She grinned at the half-hearted and bleary attempt at a come-back. He was halfway to la-la land. Well, considerably more than halfway.

"G'night House." Cuddy sighed as she saw him visibly relax into sleep. Thank God it was Saturday, she breathed.

Cuddy was restless and overtired. She wandered into the kitchen, remembering that she hadn't had eaten since lunch. She noted the gourmet design of the kitchen and cabinets fully stocked with good crystal and expensive stoneware. By contrast, the refrigerator was stocked with one bottle of slightly expired orange juice (freshly squeezed); a package of cheese sticks and loaf of white bread. Strawberry preserves and a jar of Jif Supercrunch completed the entire food inventory. Maybe she wasn't hungry after all.

After washing, Cuddy carefully removed her clothing, placing it at the foot of the bed and crawled wearily between the sheets. She noted their softness; the fine Egyptian cotton duvet covering the down comforter; the down pillows. Everything in this room; the whole flat spoke an elegant dialect at odds with the owner. Or at least with his image.

As she dozed off, she half-hoped; half-expected in her sleepiness that he would wander into the bedroom and find her there, lying in his bed. Naked. And the clock would be rewound 24 hours into an alternative universe where medicine did what it was supposed to do; and treatments went according to plan, and happiness was not quite so elusive. For either of them.