Pictures at an Exhibition – 13
"So, what now?" The beams of morning light streamed onto House's bed. He had been up an hour or so, taken care of his morning routine and had brewed a fresh pot of coffee. He had wanted to be up long before Cuddy; hadn't wanted her to see his daily ritual of getting out of bed. That awkward, pain-filled task of lifting, testing and praying to a non-existent deity that his right leg wouldn't buckle as he applied weight to it, and then cursing when it did. On this particular morning, he tried to keep the cursing silent. But now, Vicodin coursing through his body, pain softened back just barely to white noise levels, he climbed back into bed and waited her out.
The sunbeams lit her like a modern version of a Rembrandt. He had moved the soft duvet gently from her shoulder, wanting to see how the light played there, on her bare skin: it made her shoulder radiant. He replaced the blanket just as gently, wanting not to disturb her sleep; part of him not really wanting to know the answer to that question—the "what now?" that loomed between them. House rolled onto his back, propping his shoulders back against the pillows and throwing his forearm over his eyes as the sunlight crept farther and more insistently into the room's eastern exposure.
She had sat with him that other night, long ago, when she had rescued him like a wounded puppy, getting him home, holding the cup of tea to his lips until he could feel the shaking subside and then stop. And finally taking it from her steady hands wordlessly—his eyes sullen and guarded. There had been nothing to say, no words to explain, no energy to argue. She had stood and made a circuit around the flat. "What happened to all of your books? Your LP's?"
"I stored them. Wilson has them."
"Does he know? About this?"
"He knows." Cuddy had been shocked that Wilson would have let House live like this; without anything; without medicine. House laughed mirthlessly. "Says it's my own damn fault. He's right, of course. Shoulda taken the hospital's money instead of throwing it back. Shouldn't have pissed off Stacy; pushed her away until she was so miserable that she the only way should could breathe was to simply leave me. So. Wilson's the next casualty. Fuck him." House sucked in a breath, riding the crest of a tidal wave of pain as it tore through his thigh, wreaking havoc in its path. That's when his eyes lost focus as the pain overwhelmed him; that's when the frustration, the pain, the grief, living itself had finally become too much and gave into it as sobs wracked his body. House tried to regain control, viciously scrubbing at his eye sockets to remove the evidence of fallen tears before she saw. Cuddy stood at one end of the room, unmoving, letting him have the space he needed, or thought that he needed; House was never one for being touched or consoled. But it was the way he said "It hurts, Cuddy," that shredded her heart and sent her practically leaping across the room and to his side. She held him; and he allowed it.
"How bad?"
"It's bad."
"Can you give me number?" She had no idea if he even knew what she meant. But of course he knew. Numbers were rational; numbers were objective; impersonal. Assigning a number to would give him space; would let him regain himself; would…
"Ten." His breathing was rapid, panicky; she was concerned that he would hyperventilate and pass out if she didn't distract him from it.
"House! I need you to relax. I know it hurts. I need you to focus on me. Now!" Her emergency medical bag was in the car. She didn't want to leave him alone like this until he was back to himself. "I have morphine in my car. But I can't leave you to get it until…"
"This neighborhood?" he hissed with difficulty. "Have any idea of the street value….?" Cuddy smiled, relieved that House was hanging in there. His breathing was less worrisome now; his eyes were clamped shut as his hands worked at the right quad.
"Be back in a second. OK?" House nodded tightly.
A few moments later he was asleep, curled into a fetal position, his head in her lap. She fell asleep herself sitting up, smoothing the hair from his forehead. She hadn't had the opportunity to tell him about the offer.
He was better by morning, not by a lot, but it was an improvement. The pain was less; the morphine took care of the shaking too. House listened warily over a four-shot latte as Cuddy described the offer to him. His own department in Diagnostics; full tenure; the only teaching he would be required to do was for his staff of three fellows, which he could hire. He could take his time to settle in, acquire the right staff, take cases. No strings—just an hour a week in the clinic. Salary commensurate with his dual specialties and the reputation he would be bringing to PPTH. Period.
There were always strings; that much he knew—and he also knew that the offer must've taken the badgering of Cuddy, Wilson and the hospital's lawyers to pull off. Threats of lawsuits, nevermind that he had refused the hospital's settlement; House had lots of grounds for an expensive lawsuit and they knew it. And House would win and probably own half the hospital by the time the dust had settled. They hadn't had to know that suing was the last thing that House would probably have done. Because that would have meant bringing Stacy into it; making her a co-defendant—and no matter how angry he had been at Stacy, he would never harm her in that way. Cuddy and Wilson knew enough about House to know that much at least.
House had accepted the offer, speechless. Cuddy leaned up to kiss him; a seal on the bargain. Her lips were warm and gentle; fierce and passionate—just like they had been last night…
The light continued to play on Cuddy, now reaching her hair, and finally her eyes. Cuddy turned in the cocoon of the blanket, annoyed at the intrusion of light. Her eyes fluttered open, seeing House watching her; observing her. "Hey," she said, a timid smile on her face; he seemed so far away.
"So now what?" he asked, more impishly than the seriousness of the question warranted.
"We…uh…go to work. I have an exit interview to do with Foreman. His last day, remember? And you need to hire someone to replace him."
"That's it?" He was half expecting to hear a slow backing-off in her voice; regret and an "OK, so this was a mistake, and if you tell a soul, even Wilson, you're fired." At least.
"What about….this?" He gestured at the bed and the two of them.
"This….this was nice. But…" Ah, here it comes. He steeled himself for the, oh-so-gentle letting down.
"…Yeah," he interrupted grabbing for the upper hand. "…But it was a one shot deal. A mistake. We're much better as arch enemies, anyway…A lot less guilt when I make sexual innuendos at your expense in public." She cocked her head, at least slightly enjoying the real power she suddenly felt over him—for the first time that she could recall…for a very long time.
"That what you think? What you want?" she asked matter-of-factly. She knew it wasn't. She had known for months that he wanted this as much as she did. The trick was going to be to make it work…somehow. She waited, wanting him to admit it. Step one.
House sighed dramatically, flopping backwards against the pillows, his eyes sulky. "You know it's not… I wouldn't have…if…" She had scooched up very near to him; he could feel her breath tickling his ear. "It'll never work."
"Only if you don't want it to." Her voice was soft, sensual. Serious.
"I want it to." He said finally, breathing out a long sigh, removing his arm from his eyes, but keeping his eyes cast at the ceiling.
"Then it will." She knew the risks and the rewards that this could bring; it could destroy them both or save them. Danger, destruction, ecstasy, delight, all of the above: they had no way of knowing. But the journey would never be boring. Both House and Cuddy were certain, at least, of that.
He made a sudden grab for her. Cuddy moved away, laughing at him as she leapt from the bed. "Ah-ah. Work. It's late, House. Play is for after work." He glanced slyly at her, frustrated, but in great admiration for her mad skillz. This was going to be fun.