CHAPTER FOUR: Cuddy Lies
It takes Cuddy a while to gather everything and to make some phone calls. When she stops by Respiratory, she's relieved to find the department deserted. She slings the portable oxygen unit over her shoulder and on her way out grabs a disposable ambu bag from the cart. Morphine depresses the respiratory rate; just a precaution, she tells herself.
She makes one more stop, the ER. She steps into the supply room and grabs a small flat package which she slips into her pocket. Then she heads for the elevator, lugging the large totebag that hides the contents of a small hospital room.
When she arrives at the office door, she's pleased to see that the recliner and linens she ordered from Maternity have already been delivered, and that a kitchen worker is coming towards her wheeling a cart containing an ice bucket and a large thermal coffee carafe.
When the woman reaches the door, Cuddy says briskly, "I'll take it from here, Clara, thanks. His mood is more wicked than usual, and he's already angry with me. A couple of all-nighters catching up on charts wasn't in his plans for this weekend." The woman smiles gratefully at her and leaves.
Cuddy unlocks the door and motions to Wilson. He joins her at the door, spies the recliner and looks at her questioningly. "Don't worry," she says. "The entire hospital's had their suspicions confirmed--I really am the Evil Witch, locking poor Dr. House in his office until he gets every single one of his charts caught up." She draws herself up to her full officious-intimidating-administrator height, crosses her arms, and says sternly, "About three years' worth, I believe."
The grin on Wilson's face makes her happy, and she smiles back at him. But his smile fades quickly. "The kids, Cuddy. How the hell are we gonna keep his team out of here this weekend? Those three are the last people he'd want to see him like this."
Cuddy looks uncomfortably at Wilson, but maintains eye contact as she says, "They have no case right now, so unless something comes up, they're off this weekend. And I told them the biggest, most effective lie I could come up with. As far as they know, House was simply indulging in some classic drug-seeking behavior this afternoon, and the charting's his penance." There was more, Wilson could tell.
"Cuddy, please. Those are three of the brightest medical minds in the country. Surely they didn't buy that?" Cuddy shifts nervously before speaking again. "Foreman was the quickest to buy it when I mentioned that House has been using morphine at least once a week, every weekend--"
"But that's not true!" Wilson interrupts angrily. Cuddy looks at him miserably. "I told you the lie was big," she almost whispers. "And Foreman got that insufferably smug look on his face and walked off like the cat who'd swallowed the canary. Chase and Cameron weren't as quick to believe me, until I mentioned that the reason you'd moved in with him was to keep him from killing himself with the stuff..."
She looks down, ready for Wilson to yell. But--just as quickly as she'd earlier deduced Wilson's reasons for administering the morphine--Wilson concludes that her reasons for the lie weren't that much different. They were both protecting House--from himself, from his pain, and from the world. So he says simply, "Thanks, Lisa."
Working together, they roll the recliner and kitchen cart into the office. House is, for the moment at least, feeling no pain, and after Cuddy gets the recliner made up and Wilson changes him into the soft, worn scrubs, it takes both of them to get him from the floor into bed. Wilson says idly, "He hates scrubs, ya know. Says they make him look like a doctor." House sleeps through the procedure, but as they're settling him he drowsily lifts both hands to his face in loose fists and rubs his eyes.
Like a worn-out child, Cuddy thinks, and that reminds her of the small package she's got in her pocket. She sees that House's lips are already cracked, checks the turgor of his skin and doesn't like it. "We need to get the fluids running," she says to Wilson.
"Just a while longer," he says, but the doctor in him knows they can't wait much more. Cuddy smiles and hands him the package. He takes it and studies it for a moment. "Cuddy, you're brilliant!" he says as he tears open the EMLA pack and places the small, skin-numbing patch designed for children over the vein he's already chosen for the IV.
"Don't know why," she says dryly, "but every time I think of House my pediatrics training kicks right in." They share another smile and then a companionable silence as they wait for the patch to take effect. When Wilson slides the cannula in, attaches a heplock, and starts the drip, House doesn't even stir.
A/N: A heparin lock ("heplock") is a small plastic plug with a rubber tip, designed for the easy insertion and removal of needles from the IV site.