Floating

Chapter 21

"Diagnostics: when there is no box to think outside of." The textbook that made Dr. Gregory House famous. Finished two weeks before the infarction; published six months after. It was still required reading at most American and half the European medical schools. House had had boatloads of requests for guest lectures at universities world over; and conference papers at every major medical conference in every specialty from internal medicine to dermatology.

The simple irony was that House, himself had been the victim of the conventional thinking that his textbook argued against. That it had been finished and published concurrently with his own personal diagnostic tragedy was an even more bitter pill. He turned down every request; offers of endowed lecture chairs at Harvard, Hopkins and Northwestern; everything.

The 400-page volume now functioned as the place behind which House's supply of morphine lay hidden. When Cuddy came across it, a frisson of sadness came over her. She swept the dust from its cover, laying it aside as she uncovered the small metal lock box.

The box was equipped with three formulations of morphine and several syringe gagues. House, she mused, must've been a boy scout some time in his life. She selected the correct gauge needle and the appropriate vial. She knew, as did he, that the morphine administered this way would only take most of the edge off the pain, not erase it completely. He could take Motrin to supplement. It should make the pain at least tolerable.

House was lying in the same position as when she left. He watched her silently as she approached. She kneeled behind him on the bed. He was in a good position for the shot at least. House stiffened at the injection, relaxing visibly as Cuddy withdrew the needle. "Should kick in soon, hang on, OK?" Compassion filled her voice as she put the spend syringe on the nightstand and turned her attention back to the patient.

One set of instincts told her to hold him, curl around his back and hold him. Another sent red flags and warning sirens to not. So, she simply waited. Ten minutes passed. And finally he turned to face her. His eyes were examined her, sending shivers up and down her spine. "Thank you." The emotion in those two words overwhelmed Cuddy and the tears that had accumulated in her eyes now fled uncontrollably down her cheeks.

"This is so unfair."

"Welcome to my life. Next stop: the fifth circle of Hell. You sure you want to go there? You might be better off to keep riding past that stop and never look back."

"We started this together, when I said yes to the procedure. I'm in it for the duration."

"And the rest of it?" She knew what he was asking.

"We started that together, too…"

"I'm no walk in the park. Especially now. For that, you'll be better off with Wilson."

"Wilson's a philanderer. And a gossip. You keep secrets better. And I trust you. More than anybody. Not that you're not a narcissistic pain in the ass most of the time. And if I didn't believe in my heart that most of that was for benefit of our live audience, I'd probably go for Wilson. Or find someone else to do this with."

"I am not some knight errant. Or a frog prince; or even Beauty's beast. I am not a nice person. You, of all people, should know that by now."

"Fine. You're a rotten human being, misanthropic to the core. No argument from me. And guess what? I'm still here. If you didn't scare me away last night, it's not likely that your going to scare me this morning. How's your leg?"

"Better. Not great. But better."

"We have work to do. And I need a cup of coffee. Do you have any food in this apartment? Maybe I should have told Wilson to come over. At least he'd have brought some bagels."

"Bagel bakery down the street delivers…for an exorbitant fee. You got any money?"

"You don't?"

"No cash. Haven't been to the ATM."

"Figures. Fine. You buy dinner. You do have credit cards, don't you? You seem to have recovered at least some of your sense of humor. Not that that is a good thing, mind you."

"You seem to have that effect on me, Cuddy. Maybe it's that t-shirt that you're not really wearing…" House watched her blush as she followed his eyes down her shoulder. House's enormous t-shirt had fallen from her shoulders and half exposed her breasts to him.

"You must be doing better," she sighed, indignantly pulling the shirt up higher. "I'll go pick up some bagels. Will you be alright for a bit?"

"Seriously. They deliver."

"You don't want me to go?" Cuddy was suddenly concerned.

"Not dressed like that! Neighbors will talk. There will go my reputation."

"Fine. Call. I'll make some coffee." House was a bit groggy, slightly queasy, and enormously depressed, and still in more pain than he would admit to Cuddy, but for just a moment, he was enjoying this little bit of domesticity. He had missed it. For a long time. The sparring, the flirting on a lazy morning. The moment was fleeting, but he hoped it might return at a more opportune time as he watched Cuddy sashay from the room.

The coffee table was a tangle of papers in two languages; poppy seed remains of bagels, empty coffee mugs and feet. House had, at first, resisted going back through the notes. Cuddy insisted they backtrack through everything.

The procedure had worked. They knew that. A careful review of the notes revealed nothing that Cuddy or the anesthesiologist had done wrong. The dosages the titrations up and down; even the gradual decrease of narcotics – all done according to the plan.

"There's an anecdotal report here, House." He looked up from his reading. Cuddy was glad they were doing this. This analysis, the give and take… She could see the effect it was having on him. Intellectualizing. That's what it was called. It enabled him to look at what had happened dispassionately and maybe help him find his way through the disappointment and the return of the pain.

"A female patient, aged 38. Everything went well, etc. etc. And then, at the airport enroute back to the US, she bumped the injured area. The pain immediately returned."

"I've seen that report. But there's no information on what happened to her. Whether they redid the procedure so soon after the initial treatment."

"We can call. The original physicians. The researchers in Germany. You said they had given you notes. Maybe we can call them in on a consult. Do you have an email address or cell phone number."

"Yes." It wasn't that he hadn't thought of it before. He just wasn't sure he wanted to know the prognosis. What if there was nothing they could do at this point. House was a man of little hope on a good day. And he realized the potential effect of more bad news on his own fragile psyche. The clock on the dvd player read 3:00.

"It's too late to call today."

"What about emailing?"

"I…" Suddenly she understood why he was being hesitant. He was afraid. Reluctantly, in his own way, he was letting her know that. The admission, even couched as it was, staggered her.

"Do you mind if I email? I'm the physician of record. It makes more sense. Even though you know him."

"We're not exactly dating. No, I don't mind. I'll get you the address. You know, it's past time for your shot, Cuddy. Do you have your kit?"

"In my purse."

They had been sitting all day now, working reading, bantering back and forth when House's mood swang back from the eerie calm he had protected himself with, to a more animated posture. But they had not physically touched. Both of them felt the tension.

House drew out the dosage from the vial while Cuddy hiked the oversized t-shirt to her waist. House raised an eyebrow as he eyed the curve of her hip, involuntarily sighing as he delicately swabbed the area with alcohol.

"Cuddy." He had finished the injection. "I know this is going to sound like such a come-on, but you are one beautiful woman."

"If you think that line will get you anywhere…" He didn't really feel quite up to it. He was distracted and depressed. But he didn't want her to know that. "…it won't. Not today. I'm still concerned about your leg. I don't want any unnecessary activity aggravating it."

She wanted him. Her hormones were in overdrive, and his proximity combined with his vulnerability. Her feelings for him were no less complex than they had ever been, maybe more. Probably more. At that moment, she knew that she could so easily love him; be in love with him. Be with him forever. Right now, however, her more clinical instincts recognized that any attempt would likely end in failure. He was too distracted, she knew, and his mood swings signaled other issues. A perceived failure on his part would send him reeling, and she didn't want to be the cause of that. His male ego prevented her from explaining.

There was time.