CHAPTER EIGHT: Doors

"Wilson told me you didn't eat this morning; said you told him you'd eat when I got here. So what's your pleasure? A late breakfast? Or a sandwich?" Wilson had seemed worried about House's appetite again; Cuddy wants to make sure she gets him fed.

"Nothing right now, thanks," House says. He's still sitting stubbornly in the wheelchair; Cuddy had finally given up trying to get him to the couch, and had done his dressing change while he sat there, gazing contemplatively into space. Now, he's simply looking morose.

Cuddy sits on the couch. "What's the matter? You've gotta eat, you know. Wilson says the daytime TPN's gonna continue until you've gained twenty pounds. But I'll tell you what; you eat a good lunch, I'll talk him down to fifteen."

House doesn't even smile, and Cuddy notes that he's now rubbing gingerly at his left thigh. "That's okay," he tells her. "Not hungry, and he's right; I should gain the twenty pounds." Then, without a word of explanation, he wheels towards his bedroom. Cuddy, puzzled and concerned, follows him, and watches in surprise as he hoists himself from the chair onto the bed, lifting his legs carefully and settling uncomfortably into the pillows.

"Are you all right?" When she approaches him, he turns his back to her and simply nods his head—but she can tell from his posture that he's either tense, or in pain. She knows that the needle sticks from the EMG are bothering him, but can't tell if it's more than that. "House, talk to me. Please."

"Don't feel like talking. Gonna rest."

"I'll bring you some ice for your thigh, and something to drink. But you know I'm gonna get in big trouble if you don't eat before Wilson gets home. Just a short rest, and then I'll make us lunch. Or maybe call out for pizza?" she asks, hoping to tempt his appetite.

House doesn't respond, and Cuddy walks around the bed so she can see his face. He's got his head half buried in a pillow, but she sees that his eyes are closed too tightly; they have the lines and the pallor around them that she's come to identify as pain that's spiraled over his meds. Cuddy shakes her head, and leaves to get the ice.

She's gone only a few minutes, but when she returns, the bedroom door is closing with a resolute click, and she hears the unsteady tap of the cane. When she tries to turn the knob, she isn't surprised to find it locked. "Hey!" she yells, trying to inject humor into her voice. "Wilson's gonna kill me if he finds out I left his precious toddler locked in the bathroom with all the cleaning fluids. And I'm not ready to die. So open up, huh?"

There's no answer, but there's no further sound of the cane, either; she knows he's listening. "C'mon, House, gimme a break!" Still light, humorous. It's an effort, but she doesn't know what else to do.

"It's not the bathroom, it's a bedroom. And Wilson's already childproofed it." House's answer carries no sound of humor, but at least he's talking.

Cuddy tries to cajole him a couple more times before she finally loses patience. "Okay, here's the deal. You have thirty seconds to limp over here and open this door. After that, I call the fire department and an ambulance. And I don't think even you envisioned your admittance to the hospital quite that way. So open up. Now."

After fifteen seconds of utter silence, she finally hears the cane again. The lock clicks free, but the door remains closed as she hears him turn away and start back towards the bed. She opens the door carefully, and tries not to appear alarmed at the sight of him hunched over the cane in obvious pain. He's pale and sweating; he's stood too long, and she's afraid he's ready to pass out.

Cuddy steps over to him briskly, puts one arm around his waist, another under his elbow, and walks him, as quickly as she dares, back to the bed. As he sits, he allows a relieved sigh to escape.

Cuddy arranges the pillows, then helps him to slide his legs onto the bed and get settled again. His pulse and respirations are faster than they should be, but his color is quickly returning to normal.

"That was stupid." She looks at him sternly.

"What's stupid is I can't even have some privacy in my own home. My own bedroom." House's voice isn't angry, nor even annoyed. He simply states these things flatly, as unpleasant facts.

Cuddy sighs, and sits on the edge of the bed. "You told me yourself that you still need continual monitoring. I'm sorry, but it's true. Please try to understand. There's a reason sick people are called 'patients.' You know that. Recovery takes time. It takes more time if you fight it. Now I'm gonna get that ice pack, and then I'm gonna let you rest." She stands to retrieve the ice from the table where she'd tossed it when she'd discovered the door locked. Before she leaves the room, she turns to look at House, who's watching her impassively. "I'm sorry, House. I really am." House just closes his eyes.

Cuddy looks in on House every fifteen minutes for the next hour. His back is to her, his position doesn't change; it seems he's sleeping. At her next check, she figures it's time to wake him, feed him, find out how he's really doing. So she starts calling his name softly as she enters the room; he turns towards her immediately.

"Did you get some sleep?" she asks.

"I rested. I thought. I made a decision."

Cuddy sits in the bedside chair. "Care to share?"

House nods his head, but says nothing; Cuddy waits patiently. Whatever this decision is, it appears to have brought House a measure of peace; while he still seems to be in some amount of acute pain, the tenseness is gone from his eyes and his posture. And when he begins to speak, he's calm and resolute.

"I'm gonna do everything you and Wilson tell me. Not gonna fight it. Except the morphine; that's not necessary. Whatever's wrong with the left leg, I feel like we're going after a mosquito with a cannon. I can ride out the pain—done it before. But no more morphine. Makes me sick, sleepy, depresses my appetite--"

"Takes away the pain," Cuddy interrupts forcefully. She's remembering the time Wilson had instigated a bet between her and House, and House had gone off his Vicodin for a week. Inside of twenty-four hours, she'd regretted her part in the deal. Every wince that'd crossed his face, every tremble of his fingers, and that horrible self-inflicted injury to his left hand, she'd felt responsible for. She'd found out later that Wilson felt the same way, when he'd told her 'I've caused enough damage already.' So she won't stand by this time, and watch House do it to himself again; this is one decision neither she nor Wilson will honor.

"The pain doesn't matter; getting better matters. Where am I if I start to depend on morphine? Nice, though, that you and Wilson have decided that you 'get' the difference between addiction and dependence. Finally."

Cuddy winces at that, and House allows himself a small, humorless smile. "And now," he continues, "you're trying to absolve yourself of your guilt by going overboard. I'm the one who's paying, though, and I've decided it could get too expensive. So." He looks Cuddy in the eye. "No more morphine. No." He breaks eye contact, rolls over in the bed so that his back is to her again. "Done thinking. Done deciding. Not done resting. Appreciate it if you'd leave me to it."

Cuddy stands; House ignores her exaggerated sigh. Better to let Wilson handle this one, she thinks. He's obviously uncomfortable right now; if I get him agitated, it'll only get worse…. She quietly leaves the room, gently closing the door behind her.