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In Self Defence – Chapter 8
It occurred to Wilson as he and Cuddy quietly discussed House's condition that, concussed or not, his friend had been right about one thing – the usually immaculate Dr Cuddy looked a mess. Looked in fact as though she'd spent the last 6 hours or so sleeping in an armchair. He couldn't help but wonder if he looked equally as dishevelled.
He'd been bemused, but not entirely surprised, to find her curled up in a second armchair when he'd been awoken in the gloomy early hours of the morning. For a moment he'd been disoriented, unsure of where he was or why he'd woken, then his eyes had fallen on the sleeping figure of Lisa Cuddy and the memory of the events that had brought them both to the ICU the previous day had turned his attention to the bed where he'd found House rigid and trembling, his eyes screwed shut and his breath coming in a rapid, ragged panting.
His relief at finding his friend awake and able to communicate had been tempered by House's obvious discomfort. The dose of pain medication he'd been given was enough to keep him comfortable for a short while yet but any movement was bound to aggravate his injuries and increase his pain. House had looked ashen, sweat breaking out on his forehead as he struggled to breathe through pain and nausea. Concerned with caring for House, Wilson hadn't even realised Lisa had woken up until he'd heard the door open and turned to see her giving instructions to a summoned nurse and he had felt a surge of gratitude for her ability to assess a given situation and instantly take charge and take action. It made her an excellent administrator – and a damn good doctor.
Within moments she'd been at the bedside with a syringe in her hands and had quietly and efficiently prepped the IV port and added the anti-emetic to House's IV, even as Wilson had tried his best to calm House and prevent him from causing himself further pain. They'd worked well as a team, no words needed, moving fluently in complement to each other when House had gagged and cursed; she quickly bringing a basin into place even as he had, as gently as possibly under the circumstances, rolled Greg swiftly onto his side. He'd seen the momentary grimace on her face and knew she understood as well as he did the added pain the sudden movement would cause and they'd shared a look of mute sympathy, a moment of solemn camaraderie, as they were forced to watch helplessly as their friend's body betrayed him, leaving him retching and sweating, muscles trembling uselessly.
She hadn't argued when he'd asked her to order another dosage of pain medication; it was clear to both of them that House was suffering, each involuntary spasm forcing him into unwanted movement, each ragged breath aggravating the pain from his broken ribs. They'd watched in unspoken concern as he had tried to hold himself still, to breathe through the pain until the drugs could take effect.
Wilson knew she had been as grateful as he when House had finally opened his eyes and looked around him; though tired and weak he'd sounded close to his usual self, brushing off Wilson's concern, snarking mildly at Cuddy. For a moment he'd seen in her face an echo of the relief flooding through him. Then he had felt his stomach drop when it quickly became obvious that nausea and blurred vision were not the full extent of House's concussion.
And now here they were, hovering at the foot of House's bed, discussing their options, making plans and decisions, being rational and responsible and practical when all Wilson wanted to do was scream and shout at the unfairness of it all.
Cuddy ran a tired hand over her face.
"Well," she sighed, "there's not much more we can do now till morning anyway."
Wilson nodded his agreement, his hand rubbing at the stiff muscles of his neck. He gave a small groan as he tilted his head this way and that, trying to work out the kinks. Sleeping in an armchair hadn't done him much good either. He checked his watch: 2:47am. Far too early to be awake, not enough time for it to be worth trying to get any more sleep. Damn it.
"Why don't you go home?" he suggested, unable to resist the wry smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth, "House was right, you do look terrible."
He was rewarded with the kind of raised eyebrows look she usually reserved for House but her smile said she knew what he was trying to do.
"You're not looking so fresh yourself Dr Wilson," she informed him tartly.
"I'd say House and his scruffy ways were starting to have a bad influence on you if it weren't for the fact that the mere thought terrifies me." she grinned.
It was good to see a smile on her face. There'd been little enough reason for those of late. His gaze followed the lithe curve of her figure as she placed her hands at the base of her spine and stretched tiredly, tipping head back as she sought to loosen the tightness in her back and shoulders. She sighed and he felt himself flush guiltily as he realised his eyes were wandering. House would never let him hear the end of it if he realised…
The unfinished thought sobered his mood and drew his gaze back to the bed. House lay so quiet and still, seeming somehow smaller, lost amongst the paraphernalia of the ICU; tubes and wires and cables, drips and screens and readouts. His energy, his vitality, was missing and the room felt cold without it. House was a force of nature, a law unto himself, his fierce intellect driving everything he did and, much as he might wall himself off from life, he took a perverse kind of enjoyment from the diversions he allowed himself; baiting Cuddy, teasing his staff, insulting his patients, confounding everybody's expectations. As infuriating as House could be at times, right now Wilson would have given anything to see that mischievous glint in his eye and to know that another crazy stunt was in the offing.
Lisa's hand on his shoulder brought him out of his introspection and he turned to find her beside him, her brief smile not hiding the fact that her thoughts were as sombre as his own.
"He'll be ok," she said and he wasn't sure if she was trying to convince him or herself.
"I know."
They stood there together, her hand still on his shoulder, gazing at the lines of pain drawn deep on their friend's face, hoping for.. for what? For closure? Understanding? Acceptance? Even to his own ears his voice sounded small, unsure, as he murmured again, "I know."
She pulled her hand back, bringing it to her mouth as a yawn took her by surprise. She grimaced.
"Okay. I'm gonna head home and take a shower, make myself a bit more presentable. Maybe drink a lot of coffee…"
She gave him a resigned look. "I'd suggest you do the same but somehow I get the feeling it wouldn't get me anywhere?"
The look on his face obviously answered her question because she gave in gracefully, knowing when to admit defeat.
"Sometimes I'm not sure which of you two is the more stubborn," she told him ruefully, a wave of her hand suggesting that she had given up on reasoning with him and House both. She gathered up her purse and jacket from the armchair.
"I am going home," she declared as she opened the door, "and when I return I will bring you coffee, and you will drink it, and then you will go home and at the very least change into some clothes that have not been slept in."
Her voice brooked no disagreement but the slight tilt to her lips took the sting out of her lecture and her eyes were warm as she paused in the doorway.
"I'll have the CT scheduled first thing, as soon as the staff get in." she assured him.
Her eyes slid past him and lingered for a moment on the still figure in the bed. When she looked back at him her eyes were shining in the light from the corridor.
"Take care of him, James."
He nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
By 5:00am Lisa Cuddy felt almost human again. A shower turned up as hot as she could stand it had pounded the stiffness from her muscles and left her skin tingling, had probably done more to wake her up than the strong, fresh coffee she had left brewing as she showered. She had stood with her head under the brutal stream of water for a long time, her long hair clinging wetly to her neck and face, and if not all the water that had flowed down her cheeks had come from the shower head then that was no-one's concern but her own.
She had sat at her dresser wrapped in a thick terry-cloth robe, her hands cupped around a hot cup of coffee, and felt oddly refreshed; washed clean and empty, as if the stinging water had rinsed more than dirt from her skin, had dissolved the pain and fear and anger and swirled it down the drain.
By the time she arrived back at the hospital she was once again every inch the consummate administrator; calm, efficient, unruffled, her suit smartly pressed, make-up immaculate, not a hair out of place. House's assailant had taken something from her yesterday; her sense of security, her confidence. Today she would take it back, take control. To do anything else was to let him win. Her professional armour in place, she was ready for the day's battles.
The hospital was still quiet at this early hour and she walked the empty corridors with a sense of quiet affection and pride. This was a good hospital. This was her hospital.
True to her promise, she carried two cups of steaming coffee as she carefully nudged open the door to House's room. 5:00am or not, as a doctor you soon learned which of the local coffee shops kept which hours and the small café two blocks away opened at 4:00am on weekdays – and made a damn good latté.
She was not surprised to find Dr Wilson awake, slouched in the chair beside the bed, his head propped up on one hand as he flicked through a set of case notes in his lap. A loose pile of paperwork was scattered on the floor at his side. He looked up as she entered and gave her a small smile.
They kept their voices low as she handed him his coffee.
"How is he?" she asked, nodding towards the bed.
He took a careful sip from his drink, savouring the rich warmth.
"No change," he told her. "Sleeping peacefully."
He caught her glance at the chaos of files around his chair and grinned ruefully. "Couldn't get back to sleep." he shrugged. "Listening to House snore loses its entertainment value pretty quickly so I thought I'd catch up on some charting."
Cuddy settled herself in the second armchair with a smile, "Charting is more interesting than watching House sleep? He'll be mortally offended to hear that."
"Hmm, well just because he finds sleeping more entertaining than charting…" Wilson mused good-naturedly.
She felt her heart lighten a little as they bantered easily, falling smoothly back into familiar habits.
She let him finish his coffee before holding him to his side of their bargain. Not giving him time to protest, she took the empty cup from him and swiped the file from his lap.
"Home," she ordered firmly. "Now."
When he would have grumbled she pointed out that House would never forgive him if he turned down an official sanction not to do his charting. Tired though he was, Wilson couldn't help but grin at that.
She chivvied him gently in the direction of the door and, when he turned back to look at House, his heart and soul in his eyes, she answered his unasked question.
"I'll stay with him," she promised.
"I'll be back in an hour.."
She interrupted him, "Make it two."
She met his frown with her most disarming expression and a sweetly innocent voice, "Two hours Dr Wilson, a hot shower and a change of clothes – or I tell him you said he snores."
He scoffed lightly, and grinned at her, the mood broken. She saw him off with a smile and shut the door firmly behind him. She'd brought some paperwork of her own with her and had every intention of settling in the chair and getting an early start on the day but something drew her to the bedside and she stood for a long moment, watching House as he slept. He lay still and silent under the weight of medication and she couldn't help a small smile at Wilson's accusation of snoring. He looked so pale and drawn against the crisp, white hospital sheets and she reached out a hand to his forehead, finding the skin cool and dry. The bruise at his temple was starting to discolour, the bluish/purplish tinge spreading under the skin, accentuating his pallor, the dark hollows under his eyes. She sighed.
"One of these days, House," she told him softly, "One of these days, you'll be the death of me."
When Wilson returned she had pulled an armchair alongside the bed and was sat staring into space, her paperwork untouched, one hand loosely holding his.
TBC