CHAPTER EIGHT: Please Push Back
House struggles up through layers of drugged sleep. It's so peaceful down here, like lying on the bottom of the ocean. Everything is muffled; nothing hurts. But hands are relentlessly pulling him up, making him rise and kick and fight his way to consciousness. And as he rises, so does the pain. He groans and tries to turn his head away from it; a hand moves soothingly across his forehead. Not quite strong enough yet to open his eyes, but aware that something's different; he needs to figure it out. Ahh, that's it! He smiles.
"Jimmy, you've got girly hands, didja know that?" He can finally open his eyes, and when he does he finds himself looking into the oddly concerned face of Lisa Cuddy, arch nemesis. "Whoa! Where's Wilson, and why aren't you yelling at me, or hitting me with your broom, or—or--something?"
Cuddy removes the blood pressure cuff from his arm and readjusts the IV line. So that's the way he wants to play it, she thinks. Okay, I can do this. "Just a real pleasure to see you too, House," she responds. "I'm just fine; thanks for asking."
"Where's Wilson?" he repeats, and she knows him well enough to see the faint panic he's trying to hide.
"It's okay, House. He'll be back soon. He had to go back to your place; said something about taking care of your rat, and please, spare me the details. I'm just here because no one else can stand you when you're like this, and, well, that's why they pay me the big bucks," she says, her tone appropriately martyred. "And by the way, since you so politely inquired after my well-being, allow me to return the courtesy. How are you?"
House frowns thoughtfully, taking mental inventory. "My mouth is dry," he finally says. "And?" Cuddy prompts, rolling her eyes because he'll expect it. "My mouth. Is dry." She reaches for the cup of ice chips, and this time her eye roll is real.
"So you finally got me where you want me, huh?" House leers at her, but the effect is ruined when, mid-leer, his eyes close of their own accord and the siren song of that cool, dark, muffled place is too strong. He allows himself to be pulled back down.
Cuddy smiles fondly down at the world's oldest pediatric patient and finishes getting the vital signs. She allows herself to smooth his pillow, stroke his forehead. She wants so badly to give him comfort, and knows he'll accept it only while he's sleeping. He seems to be stable, although he's winced and cried out sharply several times in his sleep in the last hour.
She'd hoped that the breakthrough pain was over, that it was safe to start returning him to reality. But she knows that was just wishful thinking; a pain cycle like this one could take another twenty four hours to break. Or more, she thinks grimly. A lot more.
"Damn you, House," she whispers. "Just get better. I know it hurts like hell, and I know you're tired of it. But see, this isn't how we're supposed to be playing the game. I'm supposed to push you to be your best, and you're supposed to push back and make me wish I were a waitress at some rundown truck stop. But you aren't pushing. And damned if I'd ever admit this when you're listening, but it's just not any fun when you're not playing too. And Wilson, well he's just lost, that's all. You should see him; this is tearing him up. He's doubting himself now, and I don't want that for him; you live with self-loathing every day, and look what it's done for you. You're not selfish, House, I'm not fooled. You don't want that for him either. So come back soon and fix everything so that a month from now I'll be wondering why the hell I ever wanted you back to… your own twisted version of normal."
Her eyes are suspiciously bright as she turns to jot down the vitals, but she won't cry, damn it, because that would be acknowledging that they're losing him. Slowly, yes, and not this time, but someday soon, she's afraid that his pain will finally be stronger than he is.