Author's Notes: Thank you to Huddyphoric, Jane Q. Doe, LiaHuddy, LapizSilkwood, newsession, Temo, EllieShelly, JessicaClackum, red blood, fantasiadvd, huddyholic, HuddyGirl, harpomarx, Alex, Lana, grouchysnarky, Abby, and IHeartHouseCuddy for taking the time to leave reviews. I'm pushing myself to finish this piece in the next week or so, and every word of encouragement is appreciated and helps motivate me to write. Thank you.
Disclaimer: I am not Greg Yaitanes or anyone else associated with the show.
Gift of Screws
Chapter Twenty-Three: Even
By Duckie Nicks
"Essential oils are wrung:
The attar from the rose
Is not expressed by suns alone,
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson
Slowly House eased himself off the couch. The internal knowledge that something was wrong weighed heavily on him, made his heart pound with possibility and fear. But he refused to let any of that show. Rachel, though she seemed to be out of it, was staring at him, and if he seemed afraid, there was a chance that what part of her remained aware would see that emotion and respond in kind. How much she could actually act on her fear was hard to say. But he had no interest in finding out.
His only option to remain calm, he quietly approached her. Placing a hand on her clammy forehead, he knew he needed to measure her blood sugar. There could have been another problem at work here; with Rachel, one never really knew what they were dealing with until the matter was fully investigated. However, low blood sugar would account for all of her symptoms, and House believed that that was the best place to start.
"You feel okay?" he asked, not in the least interested in what she would say. Reaching down, he picked her up carefully, making sure not to drop her, not to wrench her so quickly that she got sick.
In his arms she shivered. Her body trembled against him as he pulled her close. She didn't fight him as she usually did. She didn't kick or scream or cry or do any of the things he was hoping in that moment she would do – the things that would reassure him that she was okay. Instead she was as close to limp as she could be while still also being conscious. And she seemed to melt into him effortlessly as he suggested, "Let's check your blood sugar. I wanna see what the meter says."
It wasn't really a suggestion, but then she couldn't fight either way.
Carefully he carried her to the kitchen where they kept all of her medicine. Again he didn't rush to get her there. In the back of his mind, he considered that taking his time was medically a bad idea. But as he had told himself a few minutes ago, he reiterated that Rachel's cooperation was key. Even if she was complying now, there was no guarantee that she could continue to do so after she became afraid. On instinct alone she might try to fight him.
He wanted to avoid that at all costs.
He didn't say anything to her as he set her onto the countertop. Keeping her propped up with one of his hands, he reached into the cupboard overhead where they kept all of Rachel's medications.
Her meter and lancing device were always kept at the forefront of the cabinet. Moonlight and a dim bulb above the sink provided enough illumination for the task at hand. He certainly didn't want to waste time turning on more lights; her health – his curiosity – was too important for that.
Of course time was wasted, his fingers fumbling to put a test strip in the meter, dropping the lancet before securing it into the device properly. He blamed that on tiredness, forced himself to wake enough to stick Rachel and draw her blood. She didn't whine dramatically when he did so, as she often did. There were no accusations that he'd intentionally tried to harm her, as there occasionally was. There was nothing but silence, a sharp contrast to the way things typically were, the way they should have been.
He tried to ignore it.
He could not ignore the number displayed on the meter.
There was no time to consider why it was so low. His mind pushed for answers, to know how that had happened. But he fought his own interest, warred with himself, understanding that now was not the time. Explanations were important; of that he was always sure. And yet if he didn't treat the symptoms of her illness now, she would never be alive to hear why her blood sugar had fallen so low, and what would he tell Cuddy then?
No, he thought, refusing to let himself go down that road. He couldn't wonder about the hows or whys or what would happen if he screwed up and Cuddy found out. Right now the only thing he could consider was how to best help Rachel.
Obviously that didn't take much effort on his part. Dispassionately assessing her, he felt that trying to raise her blood sugar orally was a mistake. She was conscious, yes, but there was no way she had enough awareness to be able to chew and swallow properly. If she choked, that would only compound their problems. Rubbing glucose gel or sugar on to her gums would minimize the risk of aspiration, but he worried that she would unwittingly fight him. At the moment her mouth was making small chewing movements, as though she knew what needed to be done but could not function well enough to make that happen. And if he stuck a finger in her mouth, there was the possibility that she would bite him, hinder her own recovery because she didn't know any better. So at that point, the glucagon seemed to be the best choice.
His body must have instinctively known that was the option he would choose. Before he'd even settled on the matter, his hand clasped around the thin case containing the syringe and vial of medication. He pulled it out of the cabinet and snapped the orange container open. As he rolled the vial around to mix the powder and liquid parts of the medication together, he second-guessed what he was doing – proof, he felt, that this weekend had exhausted him beyond understanding.
It felt like the right choice to make. Glucagon was typically saved for patients who were unconscious. Rachel might have been awake but just barely. Giving her the injection would give them time, would use the stored glucose in her liver to rouse her enough that she could drink and eat. But he found himself reconsidering the decision anyway.
It was right, he knew, and yet it seemed drastic. That she could be so severely hypoglycemic, that hours after he'd personally given her her insulin she could be this sick… it defied sense, and House hated to give her anything without understanding just what had occurred.
There was no other choice though. While he'd been fighting with Cuddy, he'd been pushed into a corner without even knowing it. And now, trapped and without options, he could only react to what was happening.
Setting the syringe to the side, he reached for Rachel once more. Gently he guided her back onto the counter, explaining, "I'm gonna give you a shot in your thigh." He rolled her over onto her side. And even though she offered no resistance, he told her, "That's in case you barf, so I don't get vomit on me."
His hands pulled her pajama pants down enough to expose one of her thighs. The strangeness of the sight was not lost on him. As he picked up the syringe, he fought the lingering feeling of exhaustion, but he was not so out of it that he could not see how bizarre it was to have Rachel half naked on the kitchen counter. This was definitely not, at least, how he'd planned on spending his Sunday night.
Well, that wasn't exactly true.
The needle inserted into her thigh, he said, "I always wanted to get a Cuddy half naked and on the kitchen counter, but clearly I should have been more specific about that, because this is definitely not what I had in mind."
She didn't flinch as he depleted the syringe, didn't fight him as she had earlier.
When he'd given her her insulin, he thought dimly, the beginning embers of realization starting to spark.
She'd fought him.
Hard – and when was the last time she had done that with her insulin?
At the time, he'd believed it was all about the location site. She'd always had an aversion to stomach injections, and when he'd told her that was the plan, she'd tried her best to avoid the needle. She hadn't actually said that she didn't want it in her stomach; he hadn't given her enough time to articulate what her problem was. But he'd assumed….
He'd assumed.
And then his mind raced back to earlier in the evening – when Rachel had come rushing to their table nearly the second dinner had started. She'd claimed to be finished eating. Cuddy had doubted her, but he hadn't seen the lie in her eyes. She had said her plate was clean. He'd believed her. But then again, had he ever really given her enough time to betray her words? Had he not been looking for a reason to keep her with them, to stop her from going back to that room filled with those douche bag kids? He knew the answer was he had been doing precisely that.
So… maybe she had been lying. Maybe… she hadn't eaten a thing.
It would make sense. The other children had called her fat, had been making fun of her all evening. If she hadn't wanted to deal with further torment, perhaps she had skipped the meal. Or maybe she'd just eaten enough that… she thought she could get away with taking the insulin?
He didn't know. And no matter what she did, what she ate or didn't, that didn't explain how she'd been able to lie to her mother and to him about the plate being empty. Then again, had anyone even checked to make sure Rachel had finished her dinner? He'd been intent on being mad, and Cuddy had been focused on work, something productive at least. And it seemed not only possible but also likely then that they'd both, but perhaps he more so, had ignored all of the events that would explain what had happened. They'd missed something, something he could only guess at, circle around now.
He'd given her the appropriate amount of insulin based on her blood sugar, but clearly there were other variables to this equation that had been kept secret. Whether she'd eaten at all and how much, whether there was something else going on… it was impossible to say.
Unfortunately for all of them, Rachel couldn't either at the moment. She was pepping up for sure, her eyes not nearly as glazed over as they had been. But that didn't mean she was anywhere near ready for a conversation. Still in desperate need of something to raise her blood sugar, she wasn't going to be capable of explanations for a while.
Under normal circumstances, he would have been okay with acting on his own logic, letting himself dictate how she would be treated. He didn't trust himself to be the only set of eyes here.
He needed Cuddy.
Tossing the syringe aside, he quickly redressed Rachel. He took his time picking her up; jolting her in this state would probably make her sick to her stomach, and he hadn't been lying when he'd voiced wanting to avoid being puked on. Which was why he didn't hurry down the hallway to Cuddy.
Part of him wanted to. Part of him screamed to get to her, to have her input, to have her there to protect them all from potential mishaps and mistakes. But that was the lack of sleep, the eerie silence in the room getting to him. Fear would have propelled him forward as fast as he could move, and in doing so, he would knowingly make things worse. Scaring Rachel or making her barf – those were things he didn't need to do, ways to compound a problem that was already severe enough on its own.
Forcing himself to remain calm, he slowly walked them both down the hallway. Twice, Rachel started to gag. Each time, he stopped, held her close and still, and waited for the bout of nausea to pass. Thankfully she didn't actually throw up. Had she done so, that would have been one more thing for him to deal with, and it went without saying that he had more than enough on his plate.
By the time he actually got the kid into their bedroom, she was more alert than before. At least she was conscious enough that, when they bypassed a sleeping Cuddy, he told Rachel in a low voice, "I'm gonna get Mommy up, so I'm going to put you down." Going straight into the bathroom, he gingerly laid her down on the bath mat. His hands shifted her again, making sure she was on her side once more. "You need to stay here, Rachel."
Finally she spoke. "Mommy."
"I'm gonna get her," he said in a voice firm enough that there was no doubt as to whether he meant it. "Just stay here. Don't move." He reached back and turned on the light in the bathroom. "Even if you feel like you're getting sick," he told her. "Just stay where you are, like that. Okay?"
She nodded her head.
"I'll be right back. Let me get your mother."
House slipped out of the bathroom, closing the door partly behind him. He left it ajar, just in case Rachel needed something. But the last thing he wanted was to abruptly wake his girlfriend.
In the scheme of things, he supposed that didn't matter. He acknowledged it was trivial to care about how he woke Cuddy up. If only because, the second she learned the truth, she wouldn't care how he'd behaved, he knew it was silly to be concerned with how he brought this to her attention. Yet that didn't stop him from practically tiptoeing towards the bed, didn't prevent him from carefully sitting down on the mattress, and softly touching her arm.
As it had been with Rachel, it was important now to… manage Cuddy's reaction. That sounded awful, especially when he understood that he wasn't exactly handling any of this all that well. But hypocrisy aside, he was right to do so. Keeping Cuddy calm meant that she would be better prepared to take care of Rachel; let Cuddy react with fear and anxiety and that would eventually trickle down into Rachel's thick skull – and then, he'd not only have to deal with stabilizing Rachel's blood sugar, he'd have to do it while fighting all sorts of hysteria that he didn't have the ability to battle.
Even setting all of that aside, he knew he needed to be gentle here. Rachel was sick now, and what insult had he implied in his last conversation with Cuddy? That she was a bad mother, that she had missed so much this evening with regards to Rachel. That was their last conversation. And if he didn't treat Cuddy with every last bit of care he possessed, she would remember those words.
She would never forgive him for them.
Sympathetic was the only way he could play this.
So far though, lightly stroking her arm wasn't getting the job done.
He leaned down and kissed her shoulder. Rubbing his stubble against her skin, he hoped to rouse her through that feeling. And he succeeded there, because suddenly she shifted on her side.
Her eyes remaining shut, she didn't say anything. She just reached back over her side and tugged at the comforter. Holding the sheets up, she was making her meaning plain. Although he doubted she had forgiven him, she was offering him a spot on the bed, allowing him to spoon against her. He wished he could accept.
When he didn't, Cuddy grumbled, "Hurry and get in. I'm getting cold."
"I know." He gently pulled the comforter out from her hand. "But we need to talk about something."
She groaned and shifted around a little. Throughout she kept her eyes closed. "It can wait. Go to sleep."
"I wish I could do that," he admitted. She looked like she was already no longer listening, so he placed a palm on her back. "But I need you to get up."
If anything she did the opposite of that. Rolling onto her stomach, she seemed more intent on sleeping than she had before. "If I say I'm not mad, will you shut up and let me sleep?"
"It's not that simple."
She scoffed.
"You can be mad at me. This isn't about that." When that got absolutely no reaction from her, he told her, "Cuddy, this is important. I need you to sit up." As an afterthought, he added, "Please."
Finally she listened. Rolling over again, she slowly sat up, all the while making it absolutely clear why she was doing so. "Fine. Fine, fine, if it will shut you up, I'm awake."
And yet, as cross as she sounded, when she finally did sit up, she slumped straight away into his embrace. Then again, she probably just wanted to fall asleep again as quickly as possible. Not for a second then did he take it to mean that all had been forgiven.
He proceeded carefully.
"Rachel's awake," he said slowly.
"Hmm," Cuddy mumbled in understanding. "Nightmare?"
He wished that were the case. Since it wasn't, he forced himself to begin to say the things he never wanted to tell her. "No. No, that's not –"
"She wet the bed." It didn't come out as a question, which took him by surprise. From an outside perspective, he thought her conclusion was an understandable one; the kid hadn't met a mattress she hadn't enjoyed pissing on at one point or another. But he hadn't expected Cuddy to take the conversation in that direction. He hadn't thought about her reaction much at all. And in the moment, it threw him for a loop, giving her enough time to say, "All right. I'll take care of it."
He grabbed a hand before she could pull away.
"No. She didn't wet the bed."
"Then –"
"Her blood sugar is low."
It was the most pedestrian way of putting it, an understatement that unquestionably insulted her considerable intelligence. Endocrinology was her specialty, her mind having always had a knack for large, complex systems and problems requiring long-term care and nurturing. She worked in degrees, in small adjustments, in situations where the smallest degree of nuance made a difference, but he was talking to her now as though she couldn't possibly understand anything remotely complicated. This was what she'd studied, but he was treating her like she was an idiot. He hated himself for it, because she shouldn't have thought that was necessary.
Cuddy didn't seem to notice any of it though. Pulling back from him, she squinted into the dark. Suddenly she jerked back and turned the light on behind her. Her gaze serious and trained on him, she asked, "How low?"
He didn't want to answer the question directly. As intelligent as he knew she was, he also understood that people tended to be idiotic when it came to their own kids. Giving her the exact number of milligrams per deciliter would make that worse for her. In telling her, he would be calling onto that part of her that was well equipped to handle these kinds of situations. But being that she was also the patient's mother, Cuddy would be biased, crazed for action that didn't necessarily suit Rachel's needs.
Granted, being vague wasn't exactly going to stop her from going down that road. She had more than enough knowledge to take whatever information he gave her about Rachel's condition to go absolutely insane. Nevertheless, he had to do his best to manage this.
"I gave her glucagon five minutes ago" was what he told her.
"She was unconscious?"
He had to hold her hand tight then to keep her from springing up out of the bed. "Almost. But she's responding to it. I just need someone to sit with her while –"
"Okay."
"Listen to me."
"I said okay."
There was a threat in her tone, a demand to be let go of or face the consequences. He heard it, but he didn't respond. Although she had every right to want to rush to her daughter, he knew that allowing her to do so now, when she was obviously upset, would be a mistake.
"You need to calm –"
"Oh go to Hell."
"Cuddy," he implored. Her eyes flashed angrily, and her mouth briefly twisting into something hard and angry looking, it was only a matter of time before she yelled at him. He acted quickly. "Right now, she is scared but listening to me. You go in there like this, you're going to upset her, and that's going to make treating her that much more difficult. You need to calm down."
She heard him. She didn't want to, but she had heard what he'd said. And as much as she hated to admit it, he was right.
"She's responding to the glucagon," he said gently, thumb rubbing the back of her hand. "I'm gonna make her something to eat, but she needs you to sit with her and tell her everything is going to be okay."
At first Cuddy thought she could do that much. Comforting her child was hardly something she was inexperienced in. But then, at a second glance, Cuddy was taken by the tone House was using, the one that made the unspoken clause somehow audible to her ears. What he'd said was she needed to sit with Rachel; what he'd meant was tell her everything was going to be okay – even if it wasn't.
Then Cuddy couldn't move even if she'd tried.
Her voice raspier than it had been, she cautiously asked, "How bad, House?"
She could see him fight the urge to look away. Her stomach clenched violently as she waited for him to voice the fear he clearly felt.
"Bad," he said honestly. "I don't think she ate at the party." And then he had to make matters worse by adding, "I gave her her insulin."
One of those factors was problematic. Both of them occurring on the same night was unfathomably disastrous. They both knew it.
House looked at her as though he was waiting for her to scream at him, to lay the blame at his feet, but he couldn't have been more wrong about that happening. If she had felt anger, it was overwhelmed by the feeling of impending disaster. Fear numbing her to everything else, what part he had or hadn't played couldn't even begin to enter her consciousness. She was too busy thinking Rachel over and over until the repetition made her feel as though her daughter was already slipping from her arms.
And then she thought that, if that were a possibility here, if he felt like it was, she needed to know.
Exhaling roughly, she asked, "Do I need to get the bag?" When she'd filled the tote of things they would need if Rachel were hospitalized, she had wondered what it would be like when this happened. She'd never doubted that it would, that eventually her medical conditions would get the best of her. Cuddy just hadn't realized that day would come so soon.
"I don't know," House answered honestly. "Not yet… but… maybe."
She sneered at his caution. Although she had no doubt he was being truthful, she resented the way he was hedging. He hadn't lied yet, hadn't been so intent on keeping her calm that he made things seem better than they were. But looking at him, hearing him, she knew what he was doing. He was trying to keep her contained. As though she were a psychotic moron who had no idea that scaring her daughter would be bad, he was attempting to control.
She hated him for that – despised him. Rationally she understood that she didn't blame him for what had happened. But the way he was treating her now was, in the moment, unforgivable. He was sitting here in order to calm her down when they both should have been focused on Rachel.
Then, no matter how tightly he held her, she forcefully wrenched her hand from his. Standing up, she let that frustration shine through for him to see.
"Fix this," she seethed. "If you ever want me to speak to you again, you will fix this."
She walked away before he could respond. Truth be told, she knew how he would react; he would feel guilty, and then that would make her angrier. Again, possessing all the reason in the world, she could sympathize with that reaction, with what he was doing. But this wasn't about him or them for that matter. Rachel was the concern here, and he was wasting everyone's time by making this somehow about him.
Pushing the bathroom door open, Cuddy frowned the second she saw her daughter curled up in the fetal position on the floor. He'd put her on the bathmat, but that was all he had done, apparently.
Reaching behind her, Cuddy grabbed her bathrobe off the metal hook on the door.
The motion caught Rachel's eye. "Mommy," she cried.
"I'm here," Cuddy said sliding to the ground. Quickly she went to work, bundling Rachel in the bathrobe and pulling her onto her lap. "Come here, baby."
Rachel eagerly curled into her, face pressed into her chest as she had when she'd been an infant. But she was no longer a baby. Short as she might have been for her age, her feet and legs still dangled over the edge of Cuddy's lap. And it was difficult for Cuddy to truly cradle all of her daughter, as she so desperately needed to do in that moment.
"It's okay," Cuddy told her, pressing kisses into her sweaty hair. The words sounded hollow. Rachel shook in her arms, proof enough that things were far from okay.
"Don't feel good."
"I know."
"My tummy…." Rachel's voice dissolved into a whine. She was on the verge of tears, knowing, even in this state, that this wasn't right.
"You're hungry," Cuddy simplified. "But House is making you something to eat, and then you'll feel a little better, okay?"
And then Rachel did start to cry. Big blubbery tears that seemed to have come from nowhere, she sobbed. "Tummy," she repeated, burying her face further into Cuddy's tank top.
It made no sense that Rachel should behave that way. Cuddy hadn't said anything offensive or bad; there'd been no threat of punishment, no questioning as to why this had happened. But that was how Rachel was reacting – like she'd done something wrong.
Cuddy wasn't sure if that was the truth. Rachel might have been acting as though she were guilty, but the fact of the matter was it was impossible to tell when she was in this state. It was just as likely that House had overmedicated her or that this was a fluke; Rachel's reaction meant little, other than that she was in desperate need of glucose in her system.
For that reason alone, Cuddy ignored the anguished guilt all over her daughter's features. "It'll be all right," she told her sympathetically. "I promise you. You'll feel so much better when you have something eat."
Thankfully, at that precise second, House entered the bathroom once more. In his hands was a breakfast tray with a sandwich and a small, clear plastic cup of Sprite set to one side. He'd also managed to pick up Rachel's meter, lancing device, test strips, and lancets thankfully.
Cuddy wasn't satisfied though, feeling that there weren't enough carbohydrates to counteract the insulin. And she had no problem letting her disappointment shine through when she took the tray from him. He'd done his best to get food to Rachel as quickly as he could, which was why Cuddy didn't say anything out loud. But somehow his best still struck her as being inadequate.
At that point, it was undeniable that she was being unfair. She was blaming him regardless of what had actually happened. She was blaming him for this happening at all. For all of her disgust that he was trying to comfort her like a child, she had expected him to prevent this from occurring to begin with.
Like a child.
She had unknowingly put so much faith and trust in him that she had demanded nothing less than perfection when it came to caring for Rachel. And then she'd gotten mad when he'd simultaneously failed to live up to that demand and tried to meet it in other ways.
Cuddy knew it wasn't fair. Her eyes flashing apology, she knew she was being awful to him, remnants of their argument seeping into their first interactions following. But she didn't have it in her to apologize.
He'd implied she was a bad mother. He'd thrown her birth control into the toilet and accused her of being ignorant when it came to her daughter.
And now he'd been proven right. So, really, he didn't need an apology. All that mattered to him was being right anyway, right?
And he was.
She was an awful mother to let this happen. If Rachel hadn't eaten, if he'd given her too much insulin, if something had gone wrong to this extent, it was Cuddy's fault. It was her responsibility, and no one else's, to make sure this didn't happen. It was her job to protect her daughter. No matter how much importance she'd placed on House, at the end of the day, he wasn't her father. He wasn't the one who'd been taken an oath under law to treat Rachel as though she were his own flesh and blood, to love her and teach her and keep her safe.
Cuddy knew: this was her fault.
And therefore she was the only one who could fix this.
Setting the tray on the ground, she plucked the cup of soda and brought it towards Rachel's mouth. As House awkwardly sat down, Cuddy fought with her daughter to drink.
"Come on, monkey. Just take a little sip."
Rachel tried to push the cup away. "No."
"Please," Cuddy implored, pushing the plastic rim on the glass into Rachel's lower lip.
"Drink," House said in a voice that was a lot less kind. It wasn't said angrily; he didn't shout. But the order was apparently well received enough for Rachel to do just that. The soda slowly disappearing from the cup, it was both a welcome sight…
And one that made Cuddy stew with resentment.
He wrapped an arm around her waist then, pulled her into a loose embrace, as if to tell her that it was okay. In any other situation, she might have appreciated the support. Right now, she wanted to kill him.
He didn't even care about Rachel, but she listened to him?
Of course he was going to be sympathetic, Cuddy thought bitterly. He wasn't the one with a daughter who seemed to intent on being obedient for everyone but her mother.
The idea immediately recognized as a ridiculous one, Cuddy fought the urge to laugh. She must have been exhausted or insane with fear or just insane if she thought Rachel were capable of sustained acquiescence for anyone. Clearly, she must have been crazy to entertain that thought for more than a second without remembering just how stubborn her child was even under the best of circumstances.
House, perhaps understanding the same thing, tried to maximize this rare moment of obedience. Picking up the sandwich he'd made, he ripped off a piece, little bits of ham peaking out of the torn bread.
"Here," he said holding the bite up to Rachel's mouth. "Can you eat this?"
Rachel batted the cup out of her face. Sitting up, she eagerly ate the food House offered her.
Again, Cuddy couldn't help but feel a pang of immature jealousy course through her. But right now, she reminded herself, getting Rachel better was the only thing that mattered. How it made Cuddy feel as a mother was… unimportant by comparison. So she quietly sat back and watched as House fed her daughter.
Every now and then, Cuddy would offer Rachel a few words of encouragement or give her a couple kisses to keep her eating the sandwich. But beyond those few small actions, she could only sit there and jealously watch.
The camaraderie between House and Rachel ended abruptly though, not ten minutes later when Rachel scrambled towards the toilet and, thanks to the glucagon, threw up the sandwich.
Then Cuddy was needed. Rachel was crying and reaching for her and sniffling into her tank top – completely undone by vomiting. As House slipped out of the bathroom to, presumably, make another sandwich, Cuddy understood how her daughter felt.
"Shhh," she shushed, wiping her daughter's face with a cool washcloth.
"I throwed up!"
Cuddy grimaced. "I know." The smell alone was proof enough of that fact. "It just means the medicine is working, Rachel. How about we rinse your mouth out a little bit?"
In the end it did little to calm Rachel down. There was a chance it would have under normal circumstances. If she'd gotten sick and then had nothing to look forward to other than being cradled in her mother's arms, maybe she would have relaxed. But the fact was: these were not normal circumstances. And even though she'd just vomited, based on her latest glucose reading, her blood sugar was still too low, which meant she had to keep eating.
This time, Rachel wasn't so interested in listening to House. He did his best, of course, speaking in that voice that suggested she had no choice. But Rachel stubbornly refused.
"One bite."
"No!"
"Yes."
"No!" she screamed shaking her head.
"Yeah, see, this isn't really an option."
"No!"
"Shut up," he nearly whined. "Just be like your mother: stop bitching, open your mouth, and take –"
Cuddy's nails violently digging into the skin on his arm prevented him from finishing the sentence. He swallowed back the yelp he clearly wanted to make, instead pulling his flesh away from her claws as quickly as he could.
Instantly he switched tactics, as though that would make things all better. "You know… I think I know where we have some candy."
"Well you know what I think?" Cuddy asked in a dark tone.
"That I should go find it?"
"Exactly."
He disappeared again, his absence forcing Cuddy to realize that Rachel's wide eyes were on her. Immediately Cuddy looked down in embarrassment and forced herself to admit to her daughter, "I shouldn't have done that. It's not nice to hurt people, which is why –"
"You scratched him."
The fact that Rachel could articulate her hypocrisy was a good sign, Cuddy thought. At least it meant she'd received enough of a jolt from the soda and first sandwich to raise her blood sugar a little bit.
"Yes," she admitted. "And I will apologize to him when he comes back. But if you want candy, you need to eat this," she said, pointing to the half sandwich sitting on the plate.
Rachel frowned. "I don't wanna. Don't wanna be sick."
"I know. But this is what's going to make you feel better. The longer you wait to eat the sandwich, the worse you're going to feel. So you need to eat up." Rachel hesitated. "If you want candy, you're going to have to eat the sandwich."
The softly worded order was unappreciated, but ultimately Rachel did as instructed. Her fingers still shaking lightly, she picked up the sandwich and started to munch on it.
"There we go," Cuddy said encouragingly, smoothing her daughter's hair back. "That's not so bad, is it?"
"Here we go," House announced, victoriously reentering the bathroom. Rachel started to put down the sandwich, but for the first time in his life, Cuddy thought bitterly, he didn't cave. "No. Eat your sandwich first."
Rachel did, but her gaze was trained on Cuddy, as though she were waiting for the apology to come. And though Cuddy didn't really feel like saying she was sorry, she knew that it would come back to haunt her if she didn't.
Sighing, she forced herself to mutter once House was sitting next to her once more, "I'm sorry. For scratching you. I… shouldn't have done that."
He was tempted to make her work for it. Although she hadn't actually said much to him since this began, he could see the blame in her eyes. He could see the disgust and the frustration and even a little bit of hatred at times. She might have been apologizing for trying to scratch him, but he didn't care about that. He cared about everything else she'd done, the actions that had screamed he had no place here. But holding onto his own resentment would only make her that much more determined to hold onto hers. So he let it go.
"It's all right," he said with a shrug.
They sat with the uncomfortable knowledge that neither really meant any of it.
But they would pretend, for as long as it took to get Rachel through this medical emergency.
Doing that was obviously easier said than done. It was hard to sit next to Cuddy, knowing how she felt, knowing that he'd been correct earlier to think that he hadn't gotten through to her at all. Part of that was of course his own fault, for allowing himself to be distracted by Arianne's pregnancy and his boiling frustration from all of it. But afterwards, as he had tried to fall asleep, he had hoped that Cuddy had somehow understood, in some way managed to decipher what he'd meant to say.
Sitting next to her now, he knew all too well that she hadn't. He couldn't blame her for that, because he acknowledged that he'd allowed himself to get off track. Yet he wished he hadn't had to say something. He wished she had known, could see what she was doing, and correct herself.
That she couldn't made him resentful. She'd been the one to bring all of them together as a family… as something that resembled one from the outside anyway. She'd forced them, begged him to forge a relationship with Rachel.
She'd been the one to get angry when he had the slightest bit of success in that area.
Yes, he thought. He was resentful of that. He had every right to be too. But keeping that from Rachel was of utmost importance at the moment; making sure that she was okay, that she wasn't secondary to her mother's crap was what mattered. Again though: it was all easier said than done.
Every now and then, Cuddy would reach for the glucose meter at the same time he did. And their attention suddenly removed from Rachel, they would stare at one another, silently compete and fight for the right to do something as simple as measure Rachel's blood. They did not speak; even if he'd wanted to, he didn't trust her, much less himself, to do it without a fight breaking out. So they stayed quiet.
For an hour, they cared for Rachel without so much as a word to one another. Oh sure, every once in a while, she would ask what the meter had said, or he would offer to stick Rachel in the foot while she rocked Rachel back to sleep. But required small talk aside, they were silent. And slowly, they nursed Rachel back to health.
As the night wore on, it became clear that, for now, they would avoid a hospital. The little girl never said whether or not she'd eaten, and House wasn't convinced she would ever tell the truth. She was dumb, yes, but she wasn't so stupid as to admit out right that she had intentionally skipped dinner.
In any case, whatever the cause, she was bouncing back well enough. Her blood glucose stabilized eventually, though she complained of nausea and a headache for the remainder of the evening. But then both of those things were to be expected.
"Just close your eyes," Cuddy said in a low voice, so as not to make Rachel's headache worse. "You can sleep a little bit."
Rachel shifted uncomfortably on her mother's lap. "Don't wanna." Yet she tiredly rubbed at her eyes anyway.
"We'll wake you up if we need you," he explained, earning him a look from Cuddy suggesting that she didn't want his help.
"Try to get some sleep," Cuddy said eventually turning her attention back to her daughter. "It'll be okay."
Rachel looked at both of them, her eyes darting back and forth. As though she knew something wasn't quite right, it was obvious she didn't believe them. But it was far past her bedtime; her body had been forced to handle more than its fair share of stress tonight, and no matter how hard she tried to fight it, slumber was calling for her. Her eyelids growing heavy, she fell asleep not ten minutes after that.
House didn't dare say anything in those few moments after Rachel no longer moved. Afraid that she would wake up, he didn't want to do anything that would destroy the tentative calm in the small bathroom. Cuddy must have felt the same way, because she was similarly silent, even though it felt like they were both brimming with things to say.
For that very reason, after no more than five minutes, he decided to be the first one to speak up. "She'll be okay," he offered, knowing that the sentiment was one that spoke to absolutely none of the issues they were facing. He'd gone with the line, in spite of its inherent lameness anyway; thinking that it would at least put some of their crap into perspective, he hoped it would be something they could agree on.
And they did… just not in the way he hoped.
"I know," she said coldly.
He sighed, twisted the lancing device between his fingers. "You blame me."
"Yes," she replied after a second. "And no. We both weren't paying attention to what was happening."
The inference of her own guilt made him feel bad for her. He didn't want to be the one blamed for Rachel's hypoglycemia, although it was appropriate. But he also didn't want Cuddy to think that she had done something wrong. As much as she had screwed up, was screwing up this evening, she hadn't done anything to make things worse for Rachel. Painful though it was for him to admit it, her reluctance was created from a desire to protect her daughter. And that was frustrating for him, but it also left no doubt that Cuddy cared about Rachel.
Sympathetic he reached over to stroke Cuddy's cheek.
She pulled away.
"This isn't your fault," he offered, dropping his hand to his side.
She was unconvinced. "It is."
"You couldn't –"
"Have known?" She rolled her eyes in irritation. "If I hadn't been so focused on that stupid party –"
"You were working."
She smiled at the reason he offered, but it was devoid of any joy. If anything she appeared then more bitter and weathered than she ever had.
"Of course," she said bitterly.
"She understands" was his reply, but somehow that was met with even more derision.
"No. She doesn't."
House was tempted to say that at some point Rachel would understand – not because he thought that it would make Cuddy feel better (though it might), but because he knew it was true. It would have been foolish to think that Rachel's tiny brain could understand what it meant to have a working mother, to have a mother exponentially more successful than her peers, both male and female. Rachel measured worth in the amount of time spent with her, things done for her, and at her age, she couldn't possibly comprehend much less appreciate the example Cuddy was setting. But when they were all older, when Rachel had to start working for herself, she would understand then just what it was her mother had done all of those years. He had no doubt about that.
Right now though, that assurance wasn't enough.
"Even if she did," Cuddy said with a shrug. "Does it matter? When we got back from the party…. I should have noticed."
"She was asleep."
"And we were fighting." The judgment in her voice was impossible to miss though it wasn't aimed solely in his direction.
Thinking that she would never believe him that she wasn't responsible, House considered that maybe now was the right time to change the subject to that fight. "About that…."
"No," she said, cutting him off. "I don't want to talk about that."
"You don't think we need to?"
"I don't want to fight."
He nodded his head in agreement. "Good, because I don't want to fight with you either. But –"
"No," she whined quietly. "No buts. Let's just agree and –"
"We can do that," he conceded. "We've done that all weekend and before that, for a long time actually. We keep avoiding this conversation or skirting around the issue, but that's not –"
"I have no idea what you are talking about," she said through gritted teeth. Her cheeks red with frustration, she was doing her best to keep her voice down.
He knew that if he wanted to come to some sort of resolution, he would have to choose his words with care.
"You're mad at me. Okay. Fine. But you don't say what it is that's bothering you," she told him, obviously finding it hard to remain calm.
"I know." He chose to agree with her, even though he didn't really feel it. In his mind, he had made his feelings quite clear in the past. It was obvious to him. But if Cuddy said she didn't know, then he decided it was best for him to play it as if she was telling the truth. He didn't want to fight, but they would definitely if he accused her of lying.
"I'm not trying to play games with you," he told her honestly. "That's not… I'm not doing that."
"You could have fooled me."
He ignored the cold remark. "I've been waiting for you to decide what you want. I haven't said anything, because Rachel's your daughter, and I know I haven't… always appreciated that," he said in even tones. "I have tried to do what you want. The problem with that is you don't know what you want."
Cuddy shook her head in disbelief. "That's not true."
"When you found us tonight and Rachel was sleeping on my lap, what did you think?"
She knew what she had thought, which was why she didn't want to answer the question. But in the end, it didn't matter, because he had obviously been able to guess what she thought.
"You were upset," he said knowingly. "Jealous, because she was with me, and we had something going on that didn't involve you."
She felt compelled to deny it. Stroking her sleeping daughter's hair, Cuddy told him, "She was sleeping on you. That's not exactly –"
"I'm not saying it is. But… you were upset anyway."
"I wasn't."
"Okay," he said, capitulating. "If that's true, that's true. That's fine."
"It is true," she insisted, even though she was lying. The fact that he didn't seem intent on fighting her just made her feel awful about it. Because if he'd called her a liar, she could focus on the argument. But his bright eyes silently imploring her for honesty… that was something she wasn't prepared to fight.
"Okay," he said calmly as though he believed her (she told herself he didn't). "Then what about when she drank the soda for me and –"
"Oh come on," she interrupted.
Inwardly she berated herself for behaving this way. He was right. Over and over, she repeated: he was right. He wasn't guessing this, wasn't making this up, wasn't trying to fight with her. He was accurately describing her behavior.
And she was fighting him over it.
For what?
She was the one doing it, but it boggled her mind.
What was she doing?
And yet, even without an answer, she found herself hoping he wouldn't notice the fact that she was thinking any of this.
Of course, however, he did.
His hand moving to the back of her neck, he lightly stroked her nape with a finger. "You have to stop this," he said calmly. "I love you. And… her. But if you don't decide what you want, what place you want me to have in her life, this can't work." He reached down and picked up the lancelet he'd dropped. "It just can't."
She didn't say anything as he pricked one of Rachel's fingers for blood. There was nothing to say. He was right. She was screwing everything up. In all of the scenarios in which their relationship failed, it had always been, in her mind, he who couldn't adapt. But in the actual moment, Cuddy knew that she was more the problem than he had been. He wasn't perfect – God, he wasn't. Yet he somehow managed to be the less screwed up one at the moment. How the hell that had happened she didn't know. It had though.
No longer trusting herself to make any sense in the situation, she didn't let herself speak. Somehow she was sure she would only make things worse.
"We're still on target," House said, turning off the glucose meter again.
Cuddy nodded her head. Feeling like she could talk about the medicine, she allowed herself to point out, "I'll still need to check it for the next couple of hours, make sure it doesn't drop again."
"I'll do it," he offered.
Her lips pursed, she refrained from groaning, as she wanted to. He was just trying to make her feel worse than she already did, right? He'd made his point – she was being awful and indecisive while he tried his best to please her – and now he was driving that point home by showing just how sweet he could be. Right?
"You don't have to," she forced herself to say diplomatically.
"I'll do it."
And that was all she could take. Once again doing all she could to keep her voice low, she said, "You've made your point. All right? I get it. I'm –"
"This isn't about making a point."
"Really."
"I get why you think it is, but this has nothing to do with that. I don't need prove my point anymore than I already have," he asserted matter of factly. "Actually, I didn't ever need to prove my point, because you've known just as long as I have that you've been –"
"Then why are you offering?" she asked in frustration.
"You have work tomorrow."
She laughed. She couldn't help it. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I forget something? You don't have a job to go to?"
"Lucky for me, I have an understanding boss."
"I wouldn't be too sure about that."
"You have this thing with the D.E.A. in the morning… and who knows how long that's going to take? You're going to need your rest for that."
"I made it through med school," she reminded him. "I'll be fine."
"And one of us is going to have to stay home tomorrow with her anyway so –"
"I didn't think about that." She really hadn't. Maybe it was the exhaustion talking, but Cuddy hadn't considered what they would do with Rachel in the morning. Then again, there'd been such an effort just to get through the now, to get Rachel back to some semblance of healthy, that what they would do hours from now had seemed so far away as to be unimportant.
Now though Cuddy could only think of that, could only believe that House was right. Rachel couldn't go to school tomorrow. On even the best of days, her teachers were idiotic and inattentive. In her current state, Rachel needed very specific care. The glucagon could easily make her sick for the next day or so, and it would take longer for her body to bounce back from being so gravely off balance. And Cuddy couldn't trust that school to handle Rachel when she was like that.
"Then I'll stay home," Cuddy said, feeling as though that were the best option available.
"No. You have to go to work."
"I can –"
"The D.E.A.'s going to be there, and they are going to be looking for anything out of place," he pointed out. "The Dean of Medicine stays home on the –"
"As opposed to the doctor with a well known drug problem?"
House waved the question off. "I like doing drugs. I don't enjoy selling them or turning them into meth so some fifteen year old the creepy neighbor molested can get high."
"I'm sure they'll make that distinction," she said wearily.
"They don't care about me. I am… unimportant in this equation. You matter." She bristled at the idea, but he didn't give her a chance to deny it. "I stay home? I'm taking care of my girlfriend's kid in the hopes you'll feel very thankful and have more sex with me. You stay home? It looks like you have something to hide."
She wasn't convinced. "Right. Because I timed my daughter's illness to –"
"Doesn't matter. You're not there; it will be a problem. None of which, by the way, takes into account the fact that you kissed all that ass this evening to prove that you are good at your job."
"You think if I'm not there, they'll think I can't do my job."
"Am I wrong about that?"
She hesitated, hated admitting the truth. "No. But I don't care about –"
"You're going to throw all of that away so that –"
"I can take care of my daughter?"
"You have someone who can take care of your daughter," he pointed calmly. "I won't let anything happen to her. And you know I'll give her the care she needs. So if you throw it away, it's because you don't want me to watch her."
She didn't accept that argument. Sure, on some level, maybe he was right. But he was ignoring one key fact. "I'm not allowed to want to watch her myself?"
"You can want it, sure. It's not the smart choice to make."
"According to you."
"According to anyone with logic, really."
"House, in case you're forgetting, I've asked you to watch her several times this weekend."
"And I did."
"You complained –"
"But I did it anyway," he said in a firm though not angry voice. "You asked a couple of times, and I did it. And then at the party, you didn't ask, but I did it anyway. Now I'm offering, and you're against it, and you don't think that means something?"
"Fine." She capitulated abruptly. "I will go to work tomorrow, and you can watch her."
She was doing it to prove him wrong, he knew. At least, she thought she was handing his ass to him by letting him take care of Rachel. But he felt that the only thing she was doing was proving him right. The way she could change her mind so quickly, the way she avoided any self-reflection – it was all part of the same problem. She had no clue what she wanted, and any attempt to help her decide made her angry. She was conceding, but nothing had been decided much less changed.
"I will," he agreed.
"Wonderful."
Somehow, he thought, even when they agreed, it seemed like they were fighting. Leaning his head back against the bathroom wall, he couldn't help but think that this would be a long night.
To be continued