CHAPTER SEVEN: Admitting

After several more stalling tactics from House, Wilson finally makes it to the car. He settles himself into the seat, and rests his head against the steering wheel for a moment. The one thing that House didn't try is the only one that might've worked; all he had to say was that I was too tired to drive. Glad he didn't notice; wouldnt've been able to argue that one. And I really need to do this.

Wilson allows his eyes to close for a minute as he tries to gather the strength to fight off sleep. Finally, he lifts his head, takes a few deep breaths, and picks out one of House's irritating rock CDs to put in the player; that will definitely annoy him enough to prevent dozing off. With a last look at the apartment, he turns the key in the ignition and pulls out onto the roadway.

Inside the apartment, the object of Wilson's concern is currently engaged in yelling at Cuddy. "How could you let him go? He's dead on his feet. You couldn't see that?" House glares at her.

"Why didn't you say something to him?" she asks reasonably. "You noticed it too."

"I tried to keep him here; he wasn't buying. He'd have listened to you!"

"House, you never once told him you were concerned about him. It was all about you, as I recall."

House looks momentarily confused. The anger is gone from his voice when he responds, and his tone is quiet. "We… don't work that way. He wouldn't know how to handle it; it'd make him uncomfortable."

Cuddy looks at House kindly. "Try it sometime," she says. "But first, try and figure out who'd be made uncomfortable by your expressing a human emotion. Here's a hint," she says, smiling and shaking her head gently. "It isn't Wilson." Cuddy leaves House to ponder this while she straightens up the bedroom and assembles supplies for a dressing change on the PICC insertion site. She's just started gathering up dirty linens when House wheels himself resolutely to the bedroom door.

"Admit me," he announces.

"What?"

"You heard me. Admit me. Get me a bed, and one of those fashionable plastic ID bracelets. Rumor has it you might have a little pull at PPTH. Think you can arrange it?" House's face is dead serious, and his tone is firm.

Cuddy drops the sheets on the floor and sits on the edge of the bed. She doesn't answer right away; she's trying to translate House's pronouncement back into English. When she thinks she might know what's prompted it, she chooses her words carefully. "Do you think you might be getting worse?"

"No. Yes. Worse, that's it. I need to be in a hospital; I'm too sick for all this… makeshift garbage. Will you take care of it? Now?"

Cuddy stands and takes the handles of the wheelchair. As she turns it and pushes it towards the living room, she says quietly, "We're going to talk about this."

"What's to talk about? My health insurance is paid up. You're my physician of record. I'm sick, rundown, in pain. I need constant monitoring. Sounds to me like I meet all the prerequisites."

They've arrived at the couch. Cuddy locks the wheels on the chair and indicates for House to transfer himself. He shakes his head. "Go make the call; they can change the dressing there," he says urgently. "Let's get going."

Cuddy looks sadly at him for a long moment, then turns and walks into the kitchen. When she returns, she's carrying a tray.

"Coffee?" House says with exasperation. "We don't need to observe any social niceties. Admit procedure takes a couple hours; been meaning to complain about that. We need to get started."

Cuddy, taking her time, sits on the couch and takes a long swallow of coffee. "Because you want to be admitted before Wilson gets back," she states.

House is quick to hide the surprise in his eyes. "Wilson? What does he have to do with this? I'm a doctor too, ya know. I can figure out when someone needs to be hospitalized. Maybe that's the problem; maybe he can't." House glares defiantly at Cuddy, and shakes his head impatiently when she tries to hand him a coffee mug.

Cuddy looks him straight in the eye. "Now you listen to me, Gregory House. Wilson is tired, yeah. He's not taking care of himself properly. And sometimes, he maybe even feels overwhelmed. But he's here because this is the only place he wants to be. And he's tired because the most important thing in his life right now is making certain that he gives you the best possible care. And he's overwhelmed because… well… it's kind of a thankless task."

"Whaddaya mean?" House asks defensively. But while Cuddy's been speaking, he's been remembering. Wilson, giving him that first dose of morphine after throwing out his team. Fighting with Cuddy to keep him out of the unit. Risking his job, his medical license, to perform the pain procedure for House. And now, taking leave from his busy practice so House can recuperate in the privacy of his own home. Big things. A lot of big things, and even more little things, done with affection and patience. Done willingly. Done daily. All for an occasional, always grudging, 'thanks.'

Cuddy hasn't answered his question; she's watching his face as the memories play across it. And she has to swallow against the lump in her throat before she can speak. "You won't be helping Wilson if you relieve him of your care. He won't understand. He'll be hurt. You're very worried about him--" Her hand shoots into the air; "Shut up, House! You can fool him, yeah. But how many times have you ever fooled me? And don't answer that, either. Just know that this time, I'm not fooled. You're worried, and you think you can solve the problem by getting yourself admitted. You wanna solve the problem? Tell the man how you feel about all he's done. You don't even have to get mushy. Ask him how he's doing once in a while. Tell 'im you enjoyed lunch. Let him pick an occasional TV show. He just needs to know that you care."

House is looking down, studying his hands. When he looks up at Cuddy, his face is abashed as he says, with sincere innocence, "He knows. I told him to ice his wrist last night. After I bruised it."

Cuddy doesn't know whether to laugh or cry as she looks into his honestly puzzled eyes. "House, you're… unique. And you know what? He gets that. You're right; he knows. He does. That's why he's still here." She can't help herself; she goes to him and places a gentle kiss on his forehead. She has to laugh then, at his confusion with the tender gesture, and soon he's laughing too.

"Now you're trying to seduce me," he tells her. She winks at him as he finally accepts the mug of coffee.