CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Weak

At Cuddy's entrance, Wilson slowly takes the hand that's resting on his head, puts it carefully back on the leg. Before he even looks over at Cuddy, he spends a minute studying House's face. He's well and truly out now; still looks so weak—that nightmare really cost him.

Cuddy has been taking this opportunity to study Wilson's face; he looks like he's just been through hell and back, she thinks, and he's so tired his hands are shaking.

When Wilson turns to her, instinct sends her across the room to him, and she puts her hands around his arms and gazes appraisingly, compassionately, at him. She knows, right away, that this is not merely the fatigue that comes with broken, meager sleep; he's ready to collapse.

"I want you to give me report on House, and then I want you to lie down. Whatever it is that happened can wait."

He tries to protest, but she cuts him off, and she's leading him to the lounge while she speaks. "All I need to know right now are the medical facts. All you need to know is that you are going to rest." He doesn't seem quite aware that she's already managed to get him to sit down on the lounge, but as she swings his legs up, he protests.

"I appreciate the offer, but it's not gonna happen. Just give me 30 minutes to not be…the responsible adult, okay? That's all I need. I just started the downward titration a couple of hours ago, this is a critical time; he needs me."

"No…" Cuddy says, slowly. "He needs a physician to titrate the morphine and monitor him closely. And I'm the Dean. Of Medicine. At a teaching hospital. Most people might say that qualifies me to handle it."

"Cuddy, no, I've gotta be awake, I've gotta be accessible to him if he--"

She cuts him off. "Just for an hour. And you'll be a hell of a lot less accessible to him, for a hell of a lot longer, if you force me to sedate you. Choice is yours, what'll it be?"

"Cuddy, don't do this. Please. I'm fine, and I can't—"

"Hmm, yeah, 2mg of Ativan, and then you'll miss all the fun. House'll wake up before you do."

She's smiling as she says it, but her eyes tell Wilson that it's not an idle threat; there's no room for negotiation. He opens and closes his mouth several times, starting and discarding new arguments, but Cuddy's got her arms crossed now, and she's tapping her foot. He gives up, sighs in resignation. "You win. But only an hour." He begins to give her report.

When he finishes giving her the facts and starts to tell her the details of the dream, Cuddy interrupts him again. "Shut up, Wilson. It can wait an hour."

Cuddy has absolutely no intention of waking Wilson in an hour—she's thinking more like three. But she's not going to tell him that, and chance upsetting him even more. So she orders him to close his eyes as she pulls the blanket over him, then moves quietly to House's bedside.

House, too, looks bad. He's sleeping, his vitals are good, he's comfortable. But his face is drawn, he looks pale and fragile. Cuddy knows that whatever happened had to have been horrible, for both of them. She hasn't seen House look this bad since the infarction, and she's never seen Wilson look as close to the edge as he does now.

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The next two hours pass calmly, and Cuddy is pleased. The downward titration is going well; as of now, 8:00am, she's got him down to 20mg. He's easier to rouse, and he's moving both legs comfortably. The only problem had occurred when she'd roused him during assessment, and his hand had inadvertently found the bruise on his sternum.

She'd thought, for a moment, that the pain would actually wake him. But he'd just hitched in a sharp, short breath, sighed, and moved his hand away from the bruise. I guess, all the things he puts up with physically, that's really small stuff for him. Everything's relative, she thinks. The thought that something which would be agony for anyone else, just doesn't really make a difference in House's world, makes her sad.

Okay, House, maybe I've been misjudging you, maybe been a little too critical about the way you handle things with the leg. Maybe I have no right to judge the level of your pain. Maybe I've been…wrong. And maybe I should actually apologize when you're awake. But that would just piss you off, wouldn't it? So she whispers, "I'm sorry, House; I've been wrong."

She walks over to the desk and sits down, looking over at Wilson. He hasn't moved at all since he'd finally fallen asleep. Even in sleep, she notes, his face looks worried.

I pray this works, she thinks. If it doesn't, it might kill both of them. If it works, though, we've saved House for a while, and Wilson will be able to live with himself again. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to look them both in the eye, and not feel so damned responsible every day. Maybe.