Closed to Cuddy
So. Cuddy was in the Hotel, according to Snape. It was only because the potion that Snape gave House wasn't enough to curb what he wanted that he was back in the bar, otherwise he'd have been bashing on her hotel room door by now, once he found out what room it was. That was probably a very good thing, for Cuddy especially. Even if she knew House
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Still, Wilson was apparently avoiding House, and House--in pain, low on drugs, and without a keeper-- was a ticking bomb. Someone had to defuse him, and it looked like tonight, she was that someone. Lucky her.
It wasn't hard to figure out where House would be. He'd never been shy about supplementing his Vicodin with booze, so the bar was the first place she looked. It didn't please her to be right, especially not when she got a look at him. Even from a short distance away, he looked like death warmed over; his color bad, sweating, lines etched deep in his face.
Cuddy ran a hand across her face and steeled herself when House demanded another drink from the bartender. Then she walked briskly right up to House's side and placed her arm on the bar, intending to deflect the incoming drink if at all possible.
"Don't you think you've had enough for tonight?"
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He stared at her, bewildered for a moment as he tried to get over the shock of actually seeing Cuddy in front of him. And when the initial shock quickly passed, he swiftly attempted to school his expression into something much more snide.
It was probably just as well that Snape mentioned that Cuddy was here at the Hotel, even if House hadn't believed him, because had she just appeared before him like that without any knowledge at all of her being here, he'd have been a lot more shocked -- perhaps he might've even thought she was the result of some kind of drug-withdrawal hallucination. The bruise on his face from where Wilson had punched him was fading, but still there; a faded purple colour with a tinge of green around the edges.
"Wow," he replied in a nasty tone, "look what the cat dragged in."
Turning his attention down from her face to where her arm was, House glanced at the bartender as he approached with his next drink. He reached past the bartender and snatched the drink from him before looking back to Cuddy.
"What, are you going to stop me?" he snidely continued before he raised the drink to his mouth to take a swig from his glass.
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Cuddy grabbed House's wrist as he raised his glass, causing some of the liquid to slosh out over their hands. She knew if it came to a physical battle, she couldn't win, not unless House was a whole lot drunker. But she damn well intended to make him work for it. She intended to make him listen to her. Tough love was the only kind that worked with House.
"This isn't helping," Cuddy said. Close up, House looked worse. He looked sick. Even the bruise Wilson had apparently left on his face looked sickly, like it couldn't work up the will to announce its presence in vibrant color. It simply blended into his sallow complexion. She gave an exasperated shake of her head. "Look at you; you're a mess."
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The thing was, there was a part of him that knew just how out of control he was. Hell, he felt out of control. But there was another part of him, the part that was way too dependent on medication, selfishly craving a fix, that wasn't aware of how much of a mess he was. Or he was refusing to acknowledge it -- one or the other.
"God damn it," he snarled, just as she declared that he was a mess. About to wrestle his wrist from her hand, he shot her a scathing look.
"Yeah, well, I don't have the benefit of Max Factor like you do." He tugged his wrist firmly in her grip, causing more liquor to slosh out. He was rapidly getting impatient -- his fuse was incredibly short.
"Unless you've got some Vicodin stashed away that you can make yourself useful with by giving to me," he sarcastically continued, "you really needn't go out on a limb for my sake."
Yanking his wrist firmly out of Cuddy's grip, spilling more liquor out over his hand, he dismissively looked away from Cuddy as he lifted the glass back to his mouth again.
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Cuddy gritted her teeth when House pulled his hand from her grip. She reached over and grabbed a bar rag hanging from one of the beer taps to wipe her hand. She tossed the rag back and turned to look at House. She was mildly surprised that he'd brought up the Vicodin. He normally dismissed any attempts to discuss his drug use. If he was talking about it, then he must be getting desperate.
"How much Vicodin do you have left?" Cuddy asked. She didn't keep Vicodin on her, but she did keep morphine in her medical bag for emergencies. Given House's tolerance to narcotics, her stock would be little more than a couple days supply for House, and then he'd be right back where he was now. That wasn't the solution. Trouble was, she didn't know what the solution might be.
Cuddy waited until House had taken another drink and added, "How bad's the withdrawal?"
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He didn't want to tell her how much Vicodin he had left, especially if she couldn't provide him with anything. But what did he have to lose by telling her? He'd brought it up, after all.
"Five," he replied in a crisp tone.
He defiantly downed the entire glass in one gulp before Cuddy could possibly try and wrestle the glass from him, and let out a harsh, choked cough at the burn the drink caused in his throat. It took him a moment or two to recover from the strength of the drink and the tightness in his throat, hunching over his glass as he focused on the way the liquor burned a trail down to his stomach.
Slamming the glass onto the bar, he shoved it away from him and then sat back, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. That his hand was shaking slightly was probably a good enough indicator of how much he was withdrawing.
"There's no such thing as a dumb question, but there is such a thing as an inquisitive idiot," he testily replied to last question as he met her gaze evenly.
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Five? Cuddy thought. That wasn't enough for a single day at House's normal level of usage. No wonder he was desperate. And if he'd been here three weeks, according to Wilson's memory, then he must have cut way back on his normal usage to last even this long.
Cuddy grabbed his wrist again, not to interfere with his drinking but to take his pulse. She ignored his displeasure with the intrusion long enough to get a rough measurement.
"Your heart is racing, you're diaphoretic...and a hang-over on top of the withdrawal is going to suck hugely," she told him sternly as she released his arm. She knew the withdrawal was only part of the problem, but it was a part that could be managed to some extent. The pain...she didn't know what to do about that, but she was determined to come up with something, somehow.
First things first, however.
"Come on, there are ways to help with the withdrawal," Cuddy said, nodding at the exit. "Let me take you back to your room."
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Managing to twist his wrist free after she took his pulse and gave her diagnoses, House snorted at her and leaned back against the bar.
"I'm not going anywhere," he gruffly replied.
No way was he going back to his room when he could sit here at the bar and drink himself into numbness. Especially if Cuddy had nothing to offer him pain-wise.
That was a point, though -- what if the Hotel had provided her with something? What if a stash of something had appeared in her room when she arrived here? Despite his decision to defiantly stay put, House cast a glance at Cuddy.
"What kind of ways?" he added, almost as an afterthought.
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Mostly what she could offer were ways to try to ease the physical discomfort of withdrawal: food, sleep, a hot bath. She had some helpful items in her medical bag, like anti-emetics, but she'd kill to have some clonidine right now. Methadone, even. Something to knock the physical symptoms down to a manageable level.
Maybe this purported five-star hotel that claimed to provide for all their needs would provide some kind of medical assistance. She doubted it. Still, as much as she hated the idea of talking to Mr. Creepy again, she'd have to. A patient's needs--even if that patient was a stubborn bastard like House--came before her own discomfort.
"Try remembering you're a doctor," Cuddy snapped. Again, her frustration was as much a result of her inability to help as it was House's refusal to be helped. She briefly considered simply whacking him over the head with his own cane and getting Wilson to help her drag House back to his room. It was an appealing thought.
"You know what detox means. You know alcohol isn't going to help. You know you need help, so swallow your damn pride and let me help."
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Lifting a shaky hand to his face, he wiped his nose with the back of it and sniffed before he ran his sweaty palm over his equally sweaty face. It was so tempting to reach into his pocket to pull his Vicodin out and slip himself a pill, except he knew he wouldn't be able to stop at one. He knew he'd feel the effects of the pill in his system on a mild level and the relief would be too seductive to ignore. He'd want another, just to get himself to the state of tranquility he craved.
So, what was he really going to do, then? Snape hadn't promised him any withdrawal potions. Snape hadn't given him anything strong enough to kill his cravings. Snape was the only hope House had, and his help was pathetic. So, how much more pathetic would Cuddy's be? Except the difference between Snape and Cuddy was that Cuddy was a familiar face, and she was right, no matter how much House was adamant to refuse her help.
Face it, House, he thought to himself. You're screwed and Cuddy's your only god damn anchor. Take what you can get.
He reluctantly looked back at her and cast her a dark, nasty look. The look was purely because she was right and he knew it, and he hated that fact.
"Maybe I should just click my heels together three times and wish for a house to fall on you," he snidely replied.
Despite that remark, though, he moodily snatched his cane up and swiveled around on the stool. She wanted to "help"? Fine. Anything to get her off his back, because he knew she'd keep on. He slid off his stool unsteadily and leaned heavily on his cane as he regained his balance, and then began to walk away from the bar -- walking stiffly, with a hunched back, as though it took a lot of effort to walk in a straight line. And not just because of the alcohol, either.
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She was surprised when House got up from his stool. So surprised that it took her a minute to realize that he was actually leaving. She hurried after him, intending to make sure he wasn't off to get into more trouble.
"You know, the Wicked Witch wasn't so much wicked as misunderstood," Cuddy said lightly, babbling nonsense just to fill the silence as she surreptitiously nudged House along the path to his room. "Happens to a lot of strong female figures. Take charge and suddenly everyone's calling you a bitch."
House came to an unsteady halt outside his room, looking like he'd used up whatever little reserves he'd had. Afraid he'd pass out right then and there, Cuddy pushed his hand away and slid her own hand into his pants pocket, feeling for his room key.
"Don't get any ideas," she warned.
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Typically, he tried to appear as unscathed as possible by standing as straight as he could and reaching for his key in his pocket. Except Cuddy, much to his surprise, beat him to it and pushed her hand into his pocket instead. He glanced down at her and gave her a wry smile.
"You put your hand in there, not me," he replied to her comment as she fished around for her key. "Besides, endorphins make a great form of analgesia. Move your hand over a little further and you could give me that much needed analgesia. I won't be complaining."
Handjobs. Which made him instantly think of Wilson. He looked away from Cuddy and scowled as he suppressed the thought about Wilson, and entered the room once she'd opened the door.
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"Get those clothes off," Cuddy ordered as she crossed the room. She went into the bathroom and started the water running in the bath, good and hot. Even in his condition a warm bath would relax him, maybe even help ease the constant pain in his leg. "You may not realize it, but you stink."
She paused in the doorway as she re-entered the main room, shaking her head in dismay at House's appearance.
"While you're cleaning up, I'll go get my medical bag from my room. Don't worry, I'll let myself back in," she said, waving his room key at him before tucking it in her pocket. "Just try not to drown while I'm gone."
With that, Cuddy left and crossed to her own room. She stopped briefly, just long enough to order room service--toast, juice and coffee--to be delivered to House's room. Then she grabbed her medical bag from the closet and began to rummage through it. Unfortunately, it had not magically supplied itself with any of the drugs she really needed.
She was going to have to talk to Mr. Creepy, and soon. But in the meantime.... She held a vial of morphine in her hand. Under controlled conditions, in a hospital, she wouldn't let House get anywhere near an opiate. She'd detox him fast. But this wasn't under controlled conditions, and a more gradual tapering of his drugs might be easier...kinder. Or it might simply prolong the agony.
"Damned if I do, damned if I don't," Cuddy muttered to herself. She shoved the vial back in her bag and headed back to House's room.
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He braced his hand against the nearest surface to him, which was a small table just to the left of his hotel room door, and leaned his weight against it as he struggled to catch his breath. He wiped his hand -- which was shaking more now that he'd exerted himself -- across his face.
When Cuddy came back out and declared that he smelled, he replied dryly, "Way to the kill the mood."
He ignored the way she was looking at him and waited until she was gone before he headed wearily into the bathroom. There was no way he'd tell her, but he appreciated the fact that a bath had been run for him. He stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt and pants, peeled his equally sweat-soaked socks off and once he was naked he stood at the side of the bath and tried to negotiate actually getting into the bath.
Stupid fucking hell, he thought to himself as he made a few aborted attempts to climb in without placing any weight on his leg. There was a reason he didn't take baths, and this was one of them. Detoxing made getting into baths a whole lot harder, too, because he was too shaky to hold himself upright or sturdy in order to get into the damn tub. He attempted to lean over the bath so he could set his hand against the wall, and when he tried to lift his leg he almost lost his balance, earning a harsh expletive from him as he righted his balance out of momentary panic.
The more he tried to get into the tub and the longer Cuddy was taking to return, the more frustrated he was getting. He felt like a pathetic invalid, shaking and sweating, naked, unable to get into a damn bath tub. He didn't want Cuddy's help, which was why he was adamant in trying to get in himself, but no avail. Fuck this. He could just get dressed again and ignore the bath altogether. Except he knew the heat would feel good on his thigh and his muscles. The steam from the bath was almost irresistible. He could almost feel the relaxing heat of the water soaking into his muscles.
It was with a great resignation of defeat that House finally gave up trying to get into the tub, and he remained standing with his hand propped against the wall, looking extremely pissed off and frustrated with himself. When he finally heard Cuddy coming bac into his room, he waited until she came into the bathroom and shot her a dark scowl. He felt like an idiot. He didn't care about the nakedness, just the fact that he felt humiliated that he couldn't damn well get into the bath.
"You going to help me?" he said to her in a low, terse voice. How he hated admitting that he needed help, too.
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She went to the bathroom door thinking she'd just check that House hadn't passed out in the tub. What she found was an utterly frustrated and defeated man standing next to the bath, stripped of both his clothes and his dignity. She bit her lip to keep her expression neutral, but it pained her deeply to see House like this and it probably showed on her face. And damn it, she should've waited to see if he needed help rather than making him wait to ask for it.
"Come on," Cuddy said quietly. She moved to his right side and wrapped her arm around his waist, grasping him firmly. The nudity didn't bother her. As a doctor she was used to it, and besides, she'd seen House naked before, back when he had the infarction. It meant nothing, except that it made it obvious that he'd lost weight. "I've got you. Lean on me until you get the other leg in the tub."
After a few moments' tense effort, House was safely settled in the tub. She gathered up his sweat dampened clothes and took them out to be picked up by the hotel's laundry service. Then she returned to the bathroom and took a seat on the closed toilet lid.
"I got some room service: toast and juice. You should try to eat something later." She watched House soaking in the tub and pondered the mechanics of getting him back out. She could do it, but she wondered if he wouldn't feel more comfortable with someone else.
"Do you want me to get Wilson to help you out of the tub when you're done?"
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He couldn't hold back the want to fire vicious barbs at her. "This explains why you haven't practiced medicine properly in ten years, because you make a shitty doctor," he heatedly remarked through clenched teeth.
He knew that wasn't true. But right now, he didn't care. There was another remark on the tip of his tongue about the infarction and Cuddy being a shitty doctor there, too, but it was only because he was too focused on getting into the tub without falling, and hating how bruised his pride was, that he didn't utter that particular barb.
The water felt like fire on his skin and he drew in a deep, shaky breath as he lowered himself cautiously into the bath. But once he'd settled in the water, he felt himself slowly relaxing into the heat of the water. He wiped his hands over his face and then closed his eyes as he let his head fall back.
He ignored Cuddy for the moment, until she was seated beside him on the toilet. He ignored her comment about the room service, and was content to keep on ignoring her -- until she mentioned Wilson.
He snapped his eyes open and looked across at Cuddy. Just the mere mention of Wilson on top of how prickly he was already feeling made the look on House's face resemble something poisonous.
"What, you worried your guilt complex won't handle it if you can't help me get back out?" he replied.
He dismissively closed his eyes again and let his head fall back against the tub again. No, he didn't want Wilson to help him out of the tub. He didn't want Cuddy to help him, either, but he knew he had little choice. The last thing he wanted was for Wilson to see how pathetic he was right now, not after everything that happened.
"I had a feeling it was him who tipped you off that I was here," he added after a beat of silence, his eyes still closed. Which made him wonder when and where Cuddy had bumped into Wilson. And what Wilson told her, if anything.
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