Edge of Chaos (14.4/15)
Title: Edge of Chaos, Chapter Fourteen (Part Four)
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating: PG-13
Characters: House, Cuddy, Wilson -- friendship between the three, maybe some Huddy if you squint. This chapter also features some Foreman, Kutner, Taub, Chase, Cameron, and Thirteen.
Summary: House wakes up from the deep brain stimulation to a life without Wilson. Now, as House's life begins to falls into chaos, he searches for meaning, forgiveness, and friendship. House/Cuddy, Wilson/Cuddy, and House/Wilson friendships
Previous Chapters: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three (Part One), Chapter Three (Part Two), Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven (Part One), Chapter Seven (Part Two), Chapter Eight (Part One), Chapter Eight (Part Two), Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten (Part One), Chapter Ten (Part Two), Chapter Ten (Part Three), Chapter Ten (Part Four), Chapter Eleven (Part One), Chapter Eleven (Part Two), Chapter Eleven (Part Three), Chapter Twelve, Chapter Thirteen (Part One), Chapter Thirteen (Part Two), Chapter Fourteen (Part One), Chapter Fourteen (Part Two), Chapter Fourteen (Part Three)
Disclaimer: I don't own the show!
Author's Note: Spoilers for "Wilson's Heart." Some chapters are split into parts because of Livejournal's character/word limit. Reviews are greatly appreciated.
Immediately there was silence. Heated but somehow also cold, quiet descended on them. Words completely forgotten, they weren’t needed for Cuddy to know that what she’d said had hit home. His jaw was suddenly clenched tightly together, and his gaze narrowed on her, the rest of his features looking pained.
Flickers of regret lapped at her insides. A desire to apologize instantly sparking inside of her, the feeling burned hotly when he said, “Here’s the difference: I was being nice; you’re just being a bitch. And while you get plenty of chances to learn how to be a doctor, I don’t think Wilson’s interested in giving me any more chances to not kill his girlfriends.”
There was anger and accusation in his tone, but there were the sounds of guilt in it as well. They were so palpable her entire body ached in empathy, and though she’d meant every word she’d uttered, she couldn’t help but feel guilty about it now. Because as angry and frustrated and offended as she’d been… she understood now that all of that emotion had been directed at the wrong person.
Sighing she held her hands up in defeat. “You’re right… I didn’t mean…” She stopped talking, knowing that he wouldn’t believe that she hadn’t meant what she said. So she simply apologized. “I’m sorry. It’s just been… a horrible day, and I don’t want to fight anymore.”
House looked at her as though she were crazy.
Either he wasn’t used to her capitulating so easily or he hadn’t expected her to do it now - or both - and he was suspicious and confused by her words. “That’s it?”
“No,” she replied, remembering that she had the lidocaine in her briefcase. Digging through the leather bag that remained on the kitchen counter, she explained, “Afterwards…” She couldn’t find the energy within her to say after she’d been attacked, and Cuddy only hoped that House could follow her train of thought. “I was talking to Wilson.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see House stiffen at the mention of his best friend. There was no need to ask why he was suddenly discomforted; Cuddy knew, and she had no desire to press the matter, easily adding, “We were discussing why this man might have wanted the lidocaine.”
Her fingers clutched the vial of medicine in her bag, and she pulled it, along with some syringes, out of her briefcase. “Wilson mentioned that it was a treatment for tinnitus. If you want to try it.”
The words had barely left her mouth before he eagerly snatched the lidocaine from her hand. It was an impulsive act, one Cuddy found to be monumentally stupid. “I know you want to get rid of the noise, but you can’t give yourself an intratympanic injection.”
“Well, neither can you,” he replied snottily, slipping a syringe from her grasp.
She rolled her eyes. “I know that you think I’m completely incapable of being a doctor, but I can actually administer an injection.”
Of course, by the time she finished speaking, he’d already unwrapped the syringe and filled it with lidocaine. “House,” she implored in a calm voice. “Let me do it.” Obviously the chances of him handing over the syringe were slim to none, but she hoped that he had enough common sense to realize that trying to inject himself in the ear was an impossibly tricky business.
“It’s too dark in here,” House said simply. “The lack of oxygen clearly affected your brain when you were thinking this plan through, because you’ll never be able to see what you’re doing.”
“And you will?” Hands on her hips, she asked, “You got eyes that you can detach from your body and maneuver around, so you can see the side of your head?”
“Of course not.”
With those words, he took the syringe and jabbed it into the right side of his neck, which happened to be the same side his tinnitus had presented itself. The needle pricked a little below the mastoid bone, and the knuckles of his large hands brushed against the delicate curve of his earlobe as he depleted the syringe.
And Cuddy, for all of her medical training and experiences with House, stood there dumbfounded. “What the hell are you -”
“Sternocleidomastoid muscle shares innervation with parts of the ear,” he explained easily, recapping the syringe and tossing it onto the kitchen counter… as though it weren’t medical waste. “I don’t trust either of us to directly access the nerves I’d like to deaden, so I thought it would be a good idea to indirectly get to them.”
He paused for a second, his whole demeanor suddenly changing to pained. Gingerly placing the vial of lidocaine onto the counter, he added, “I’m sure there’s an anal sex joke to be made here -”
“Oh good.”
“But seeing as how sleeping with me is the most action you’ve gotten in years, I’ll refrain.”
A sarcastic response lie on the tip of her tongue, just waiting to be hurled towards him. And yet the words began and ended within her, never leaving her body as she caught sight of his increased pain. She’d spotted the beginnings of it seconds before, but she’d expected it to pass - as it usually did when they were lobbing quips at one another like this.
Now, though, she could see that his agony wasn’t going to lessen anytime soon. If anything, it had seized hold of him in a way that had left him stunned and silent and her stepping towards him.
“What’s wrong?” Her voice was as soft as her fingertips on his shoulders.
He cringed at the sound of her voice anyway.
But Cuddy waited him out nevertheless, knowing that at some point an answer would come. And though it took a few minutes, he did eventually tell her with effort, “Tinnitus is worse… the room’s spinning… and I’m gonna puke.”
His breathing was heavy, his voice uneven with pain. The color in his cheeks was practically white, and she didn’t doubt that he was close to being sick.
Nodding her head, she whispered, “Okay. Lets get you in bed.” Her hands moved to his back. Her touch gentle, she tried to guide him away from the kitchen island, but he refused to let go. His fingertips were nearly white from the effort of gripping the lip of the counter tightly, almost as though he didn’t trust himself to take a step away from it.
“C’mon,” she urged in a warm but firm voice. “I’ll guide you.”
Still he didn’t listen, instead choosing to miserably murmur, “It didn’t work. The lidocaine didn’t work.” He sounded so incredibly defeated; it made her frown more deeply than she imagined possible.
“I know. But that doesn’t mean that there isn’t something out there that can make you feel better,” she consoled. “We’ll keep looking… But right now, I think you need rest. You haven’t slept in a few days, and your body needs rest.”
Reticence read on all of his features. For a brief moment, she worried that he would say no, but he surprised her by closing his eyes and nodding his head. He didn’t speak, but the small act was all the concession she needed.
One of his arms draped across her shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh. And she in turn wrapped an arm around his waist, so she could guide him wordlessly to the bedroom. They moved incredibly slow, each step gingerly and thoughtfully executed as though it were a complex dance.
By the time they crossed the threshold to the bedroom, House was sweating. His perspiration dripped off of him in rivulets, and she could feel his musky warmth along the back of her neck and shoulders. Another reason to take a shower as soon as possible, she thought bitterly.
As she pulled the covers back, she considered complaining about it. Part of her could justify it to the rest of her self, she knew; he’d spent the whole day screwing her over while she’d cared for him, and she would have liked nothing more than to point out how thankless a job nursing him was.
Instead Cuddy helped him into bed. He was in no shape for a fight (even if she was), and besides, her anger wasn’t really at him. Hell, she wasn’t even truly angry. She was just tired - exhausted - dirty, frustrated, and overall the emotional equivalent of a dishtowel that had been rung too hard. And so, as she unceremoniously dropped the covers on top of House, she muttered, “I’m taking a shower.”
There was no question in it, no opportunity for him to ask her for something - although she did smartly move the trashcan in the room next to the bed (just in case). Her words were a statement as firm as she could make it without being cruel. Which was precisely what she wanted; although she would have gotten him anything he’d asked for, Cuddy wanted - needed - him to comprehend just how big a priority showering was for her now. And as she, clean clothes in hand, disappeared into the bathroom, she patted herself on the back for getting that message across perfectly.
Glancing at herself briefly in the bathroom mirror, she felt a taste of retroactive fear niggle at the back of her throat.
She looked like shit.
There was no other way to describe herself at this point.
Her hair looked as though it hadn’t been brushed in days, bushy curls tangled in on one another. Her bottom lip was swollen, giving her a constant pout that, coupled with Wilson’s row of neat, tiny stitches, made her look ridiculous and pathetic. The purplish ring around her neck and the blood smeared on the front of her sweater only accentuated that fact. And it all combined together to give her the deep impression that if Wilson hadn’t barged in to the exam room…
Cuddy sighed and didn’t finish the thought.
It was enough to know what might have happened; she didn’t need to say it - or, well, think it. So she pushed the thought to the side, telling herself that what could have happened wasn’t nearly as important as what had happened.
As she pulled her skirt over her battered knees, she tried to focus on how things had changed for the better today. Things with House were roughly where they’d been before, which wasn’t good or bad really, but Wilson no longer looked at her as though she’d shot Amber in the face.
To be honest, Cuddy wasn’t sure she’d deserved such forgiveness. It was an almost ironic stance to take, she realized, as she stepped into the shower. After all, she’d been the one to ask Wilson to forgive her. And if she’d really, truly felt so unworthy of it, she shouldn’t have taken the initiative to get it. But in any case, part of her still wondered… no, part of her still believed that his anger towards her had been deserved.
As Cuddy shampooed her hair, she understood that House must have been feeling the same way. Wanting Wilson’s friendship, all the while knowing how wrong it was to ask for it… for the first time, Cuddy thought that she was in the same boat as House. Or maybe not, because she could talk - no, she had talked to Wilson and taken a step forward where as House hadn’t.
But they were in the same ocean of… whatever, the metaphor slipping from her mind as easily as soap slid down the curves of her hips. However you wanted to say it, Cuddy decided that it all amounted to the same thing: they were desperate and desperately waiting for Wilson’s friendship.
The only difference was, at this point, Cuddy was getting it.
House… was not.
Whatever she’d done for Wilson professionally today, whatever she’d said to him... that hadn’t done much for her. But coupling that with him seeing her get attacked had earned her the smallest of stepping stones to something better. They weren’t back to the way things were, of course. And Cuddy thought that there was a good chance that they never would be. They would probably never have the cool camaraderie that they’d had in the past again.
She accepted that much, accepted it almost happily, because she thought that they could develop something more meaningful now.
Obviously it was too early to tell either way, but she felt that today had been the beginning of a real friendship with Wilson. She’d shown him - well, she hoped she had - that she could, that she did trust him as much as she trusted House professionally. And although Wilson had talked to her about House, he hadn’t been the focus of the conversation, and there was something incredibly wonderful about that. In the very least, it had given her a chance to talk to Wilson as someone other than a co-conspirator.
Sighing into the humid air, Cuddy told herself not to put too much faith in today’s events. Maybe conversations with him would be more at ease, but she couldn’t count on it. Frankly, given her luck, it would take a hell of a lot more than being strangled to get her back into his good graces.
The depressing thought clung to her consciousness in the same way her wet hair stuck to her neck and upper back.
As she washed away the last remnants of soap, she frowned, feeling as though nothing that lie outside of the bathroom was worthwhile.
… Of course, there wasn’t much in the bathroom that was either.
But at least there was hot water beating down her aching back in here; at least there was the feeling that she was getting exactly what she wanted and anticipated, no emotional tripwires or interpersonal landmines existing for her to step on. Quite frankly, the peace the tiny room was offering was something she wasn’t eager to move away from.
Yet she knew that she had to. Her skin was beginning to prune. The water would soon start to cool, and if that happened, House wouldn’t be able to take a bath for at least another hour. And although he probably wouldn’t care all that much about it, Cuddy knew that she definitely would; as used to his smell as she was, it wasn’t exactly something she wanted to sleep next to.
Pushing her wet hair off the back of her neck, she knew she had to get out, even if she really didn’t want to.
Cool air hit her in the face the second Cuddy pulled the shower curtain back. She hadn’t noticed the air conditioning on before, but there was no denying its presence now.
She scowled at the change in temperature and quickly reached for the clean clothes she’d brought with her. It was easy to slip into the yoga pants and t-shirt, which was a nice contrast to the careful and conscious primping she’d had to do this morning. Combing her fingers through her hair, Cuddy exited the bathroom in a matter of minutes.
House, possibly still dealing with the side effects of the lidocaine, would probably make fun of her appearance. He was used to seeing her look a lot better with tight skirts and low-cut tops and hair coifed in such a way as to make her look like something other than a drowned terrier. And as she dumped her dirty clothes in a laundry hamper in the hallway, she resigned herself to hearing about just how terrible she looked.
But oddly enough, when she entered the bedroom, he murmured his approval - not his disdain. He was lying in the bed where she’d left him. Only he must have moved, because the rabbit, the stupid rabbit that she kept forgetting to return, was now also on the bed with him. It was trying to burrow itself under the covers on her side of the bed.
Cuddy silently fuming at the possibility of rabbit pee (or worse), she was taken aback by House saying with a smirk on his face, “No bra…. Daddy likey.”
His eyes were roaming over her body as though she were standing in front of him wearing pasties and a g-string with a box of condoms in her hand.
Well, what else was new?
She rolled her eyes and lackadaisically told him, “Don’t put the rabbit on the bed.” To emphasize the point, she grabbed the creature and placed it back in its pen. “And don’t call yourself daddy when you’re looking at me like that. It’s creepy.”
As she gave her side of the bed a quick pat to see if there were any wet spots, House replied, “Yes, Mommy.”
“I can only assume that, since you’re back at your usual level of asshood, you’re feeling better,” she said, crawling under the covers next to him.
Immediately her peevishness evaporated, and she closed her eyes happily. The heavy blankets on top of her instantly removed the chill that had settled on her. A soft pillow caressing her cheek, it was all she needed to be content at the moment.
Not even the smell of sweat and sandwich meat wafting off of House could pull her out of her bliss. Because, despite the burgeoning desire to take a hose to him, there was something comforting about the obnoxiousness of his presence. It made her feel…
Safe.
It was odd, because House was hardly the protector type. If push came to shove, he’d let her take the hit before he even considered getting involved. But then again, he was such an asshole that anyone wishing her harm would feel compelled to kill him first, which would give her time to escape….
And why she was even thinking about this now, she didn’t know. Just the thought of a deliriously tired woman, she supposed.
Forcing her eyes open once more, she didn’t want that to be the last thing in her mind before she fell asleep.
Her attention and gaze focused on House, she asked, “Are you feeling better?”
“Peachy,” he muttered. But then as an afterthought, he conceded, “About the same as before I took the lidocaine.”
She nodded her head in understanding but didn’t say anything. Honestly, she wasn’t sure what she could say to him to make him feel better. I’m sorry, perhaps?
The apology didn’t sound right in her head, and she had no doubt that he would agree with her on that. So she decided to remain silent and wait him out.
And when he did speak moments later, she wished almost immediately that she had said something. He was looking for clarity when he asked, “This was Wilson’s idea?” But she could tell that something else, a theory of sorts, was being mulled over in his mind.
“He mentioned it as a treatment for tinnitus,” she said, her gaze focused on him. Although she couldn’t tell where this was headed, already, Cuddy could tell that she didn’t like it.
House looked at her carefully before looking up at the ceiling. He was quiet with concentration, his crow’s feet more prominent as he considered some unlikely possibility in his mind.
Finally he asked, “And he knew that this was for me?”
Belatedly she answered. “No… He just speculated on his own that…”
She didn’t finish the thought.
Rolling away from her, House had clearly already made up his mind on how the conversation with Wilson had gone. And nothing she could say was going to change that, more than likely.
But she supposed she had to try.
Rolling over onto her side as well, she scooted her body along the mattress until her chest was pressed up against his back.
The move was bold, one she hadn’t thought out at all. And almost immediately she reconsidered the closeness as soon as she realized what she was doing. Because while any sane person would say that she’d already crossed a line, somehow each breach of said line felt more inappropriate than the last.
But Cuddy also understood that she couldn’t pull away now. Not really anyway, because rolling away from him would only point out what she’d done.
As a result she stayed where she was and returned her focus to House’s interpretation of Wilson’s lidocaine suggestion. “Don’t let your mind turn this into something it’s not,” she told him quietly. “I know that it would have been nice if Wilson had told me about the lidocaine to help you, but that’s just not how it came up.” She was trying to be as kind as she could about the whole ordeal, but she wasn’t sure that House was buying it. “Please don’t take this personally.”
“Wilson hates me,” House replied slowly in a low, depressed voice. “If he’d known that you were going to use what he told you to help me…”
It hit Cuddy then that there was a definite possibility that House’s tinnitus might never be cured by medicine alone. As much as she’d considered his brain injury, his depression, and his antidepressants, she hadn’t really thought about any of it beyond the physical aspects. Decreases in serotonin had crossed her mind, yes, but the way his mind could convince his body that there was pain had not.
The box she’d been thinking in seemed to burst into flames at that realization, hurling her into a world that she hadn’t even understood was there. To no exaggeration, the knowledge smacking her in the face made her feel as though she’d combined hydrogen and oxygen together for the first time ever, the possibilities this one fact brought endless.
She’d considered so many things. She’d berated herself for not finding an answer that would work and despised the entire situation she’d found herself in, because there’d been no solution in sight.
But now… there was a whole realm of possibilities she had to look at, and quite frankly, she relished it.
Thinking about it some more, of course, she felt like an idiot for having not seen it before.
His pain - the tinnitus - was more than likely psychosomatic.
He’d had this problem before. When Stacy had quit working at the hospital and moved away with her husband, House had been in an exorbitant amount of pain. He’d been in so much agony, so blinded by it, that he’d been willing to do almost anything to make it stop.
Cuddy had seen as much when he’d demanded morphine in his spine.
And how she’d ever been able to push that incident out of her mind was beyond her understanding, because now it was all she could think about. Now it framed every event of the last two months and painted House’s behavior in a light she hadn’t considered before.
All of the pain he’d been feeling, all of the physical things she’d tried to manage with medication - if it had a psychological basis, then nothing she’d been doing was ever going to help.
And knowing that, knowing that House’s problems could be psychosomatic, Cuddy understood what it was that she had to do:
She had to deal with the psychological issues behind House’s pain in order for him to get better. And in this particular case, there was only one foreseeable way of handling this specific problem.
Wilson.
She would need to get Wilson to forgive House.
She would need to get the two men back to a place where they could be friends again.
But how to do that… she had no real idea. Getting them in a room would be hard enough. Although she suspected she could get them together through simple lies, Cuddy understood that they would both completely shut down once they learned the truth. Wilson would leave or House would act like a jackass, and all of her lies would be for naught.
At the same time, though, it wasn’t exactly like telling them the truth would yield much better results. House was afraid - literally afraid - of what Wilson might say, so House wouldn’t agree to a meeting.
And Wilson wasn’t going to be much better.
If anything, he would be harder, because at least she had a good relationship (well, as good as it could be) with House. Wilson, on the other hand, didn’t trust her much if at all these days. So getting him in the same room as House… well, it would require her to use what little cache she had left, and even then it would probably be a resounding failure. Because on top of getting them in the same location, there was the issue of getting them to say to one another all of the right things.
And that would probably never happen.
Actually, that more than likely couldn’t happen.
What Wilson needed to say and what House needed to hear and vice versa were nearly polar opposites. Wilson needed House to accept responsibility for what had happened to Amber, but House desperately needed Wilson to say that he didn’t blame him for her death. And since both men were impossibly stubborn, Cuddy doubted that a conversation between them could go well.
Yet it was so clear to her that, for all of their sakes, it was what had to happen.
It was what she had to make happen.
Reiterating that sentiment unknowingly, House spoke up suddenly, “He wouldn’t have told you about the lidocaine if he’d known that it was to help me. And when he finds out that you were trying to help me…”
He didn’t finish the thought.
But then he didn’t really need to. Since she was pressed up against him, she could feel the tiny shifts in his body. She could feel the deep, shaking breaths he was taking and the small motions he made as he rubbed at his injured thigh. It all spoke for him, telling her that he was worried… upset.
Instinctively she wrapped an arm around his waist, bringing him closer to her. “Wilson isn’t going to find out, and if he does, he’s not going to care that I used his idea to treat you.”
Spooned up against him, Cuddy could feel his body reverberate lightly as he confessed miserably, “Wilson hates me.”
“That’s not true,” she told him immediately, feeling his fingers lace through hers. “He doesn’t hate you.”
House shook his head. “Yeah. He does.”
“Wilson is trying to make sense of what happened to his girlfriend,” Cuddy said in a quiet, imploring voice. “He’s mad and upset, and he needs time. But he does not hate you.”
Truth be told, she wasn’t sure how believable she sounded. Her words, as reasonable as they were, were ones that she couldn’t even convince herself of. As much as she wanted to believe that Wilson could forgive House, at this point, Cuddy didn’t know if that was actually possible.
And if House felt similarly, he didn’t tell her. He just lay there next to her in silence for a few moments before completely changing the subject. Teasing her, he said, “So this really is the most action you’ve had in years, huh.”
“Go to Hell,” she replied in kind, the words devoid of any harshness. But even so, as he tucked her hand into his chest, it was blatantly obvious:
They were already in Hell.
And if they ever hoped to get out, it was up to her to make that happen.
That knowledge weighing heavily on her conscience, it took her a few minutes to fall asleep. Her head on his pillow, when she finally did succumb to exhaustion, she was still holding his hand.
Go on to the next chapter
Author: Duckie Nicks
Rating: PG-13
Characters: House, Cuddy, Wilson -- friendship between the three, maybe some Huddy if you squint. This chapter also features some Foreman, Kutner, Taub, Chase, Cameron, and Thirteen.
Summary: House wakes up from the deep brain stimulation to a life without Wilson. Now, as House's life begins to falls into chaos, he searches for meaning, forgiveness, and friendship. House/Cuddy, Wilson/Cuddy, and House/Wilson friendships
Previous Chapters: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three (Part One), Chapter Three (Part Two), Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven (Part One), Chapter Seven (Part Two), Chapter Eight (Part One), Chapter Eight (Part Two), Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten (Part One), Chapter Ten (Part Two), Chapter Ten (Part Three), Chapter Ten (Part Four), Chapter Eleven (Part One), Chapter Eleven (Part Two), Chapter Eleven (Part Three), Chapter Twelve, Chapter Thirteen (Part One), Chapter Thirteen (Part Two), Chapter Fourteen (Part One), Chapter Fourteen (Part Two), Chapter Fourteen (Part Three)
Disclaimer: I don't own the show!
Author's Note: Spoilers for "Wilson's Heart." Some chapters are split into parts because of Livejournal's character/word limit. Reviews are greatly appreciated.
Immediately there was silence. Heated but somehow also cold, quiet descended on them. Words completely forgotten, they weren’t needed for Cuddy to know that what she’d said had hit home. His jaw was suddenly clenched tightly together, and his gaze narrowed on her, the rest of his features looking pained.
Flickers of regret lapped at her insides. A desire to apologize instantly sparking inside of her, the feeling burned hotly when he said, “Here’s the difference: I was being nice; you’re just being a bitch. And while you get plenty of chances to learn how to be a doctor, I don’t think Wilson’s interested in giving me any more chances to not kill his girlfriends.”
There was anger and accusation in his tone, but there were the sounds of guilt in it as well. They were so palpable her entire body ached in empathy, and though she’d meant every word she’d uttered, she couldn’t help but feel guilty about it now. Because as angry and frustrated and offended as she’d been… she understood now that all of that emotion had been directed at the wrong person.
Sighing she held her hands up in defeat. “You’re right… I didn’t mean…” She stopped talking, knowing that he wouldn’t believe that she hadn’t meant what she said. So she simply apologized. “I’m sorry. It’s just been… a horrible day, and I don’t want to fight anymore.”
House looked at her as though she were crazy.
Either he wasn’t used to her capitulating so easily or he hadn’t expected her to do it now - or both - and he was suspicious and confused by her words. “That’s it?”
“No,” she replied, remembering that she had the lidocaine in her briefcase. Digging through the leather bag that remained on the kitchen counter, she explained, “Afterwards…” She couldn’t find the energy within her to say after she’d been attacked, and Cuddy only hoped that House could follow her train of thought. “I was talking to Wilson.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see House stiffen at the mention of his best friend. There was no need to ask why he was suddenly discomforted; Cuddy knew, and she had no desire to press the matter, easily adding, “We were discussing why this man might have wanted the lidocaine.”
Her fingers clutched the vial of medicine in her bag, and she pulled it, along with some syringes, out of her briefcase. “Wilson mentioned that it was a treatment for tinnitus. If you want to try it.”
The words had barely left her mouth before he eagerly snatched the lidocaine from her hand. It was an impulsive act, one Cuddy found to be monumentally stupid. “I know you want to get rid of the noise, but you can’t give yourself an intratympanic injection.”
“Well, neither can you,” he replied snottily, slipping a syringe from her grasp.
She rolled her eyes. “I know that you think I’m completely incapable of being a doctor, but I can actually administer an injection.”
Of course, by the time she finished speaking, he’d already unwrapped the syringe and filled it with lidocaine. “House,” she implored in a calm voice. “Let me do it.” Obviously the chances of him handing over the syringe were slim to none, but she hoped that he had enough common sense to realize that trying to inject himself in the ear was an impossibly tricky business.
“It’s too dark in here,” House said simply. “The lack of oxygen clearly affected your brain when you were thinking this plan through, because you’ll never be able to see what you’re doing.”
“And you will?” Hands on her hips, she asked, “You got eyes that you can detach from your body and maneuver around, so you can see the side of your head?”
“Of course not.”
With those words, he took the syringe and jabbed it into the right side of his neck, which happened to be the same side his tinnitus had presented itself. The needle pricked a little below the mastoid bone, and the knuckles of his large hands brushed against the delicate curve of his earlobe as he depleted the syringe.
And Cuddy, for all of her medical training and experiences with House, stood there dumbfounded. “What the hell are you -”
“Sternocleidomastoid muscle shares innervation with parts of the ear,” he explained easily, recapping the syringe and tossing it onto the kitchen counter… as though it weren’t medical waste. “I don’t trust either of us to directly access the nerves I’d like to deaden, so I thought it would be a good idea to indirectly get to them.”
He paused for a second, his whole demeanor suddenly changing to pained. Gingerly placing the vial of lidocaine onto the counter, he added, “I’m sure there’s an anal sex joke to be made here -”
“Oh good.”
“But seeing as how sleeping with me is the most action you’ve gotten in years, I’ll refrain.”
A sarcastic response lie on the tip of her tongue, just waiting to be hurled towards him. And yet the words began and ended within her, never leaving her body as she caught sight of his increased pain. She’d spotted the beginnings of it seconds before, but she’d expected it to pass - as it usually did when they were lobbing quips at one another like this.
Now, though, she could see that his agony wasn’t going to lessen anytime soon. If anything, it had seized hold of him in a way that had left him stunned and silent and her stepping towards him.
“What’s wrong?” Her voice was as soft as her fingertips on his shoulders.
He cringed at the sound of her voice anyway.
But Cuddy waited him out nevertheless, knowing that at some point an answer would come. And though it took a few minutes, he did eventually tell her with effort, “Tinnitus is worse… the room’s spinning… and I’m gonna puke.”
His breathing was heavy, his voice uneven with pain. The color in his cheeks was practically white, and she didn’t doubt that he was close to being sick.
Nodding her head, she whispered, “Okay. Lets get you in bed.” Her hands moved to his back. Her touch gentle, she tried to guide him away from the kitchen island, but he refused to let go. His fingertips were nearly white from the effort of gripping the lip of the counter tightly, almost as though he didn’t trust himself to take a step away from it.
“C’mon,” she urged in a warm but firm voice. “I’ll guide you.”
Still he didn’t listen, instead choosing to miserably murmur, “It didn’t work. The lidocaine didn’t work.” He sounded so incredibly defeated; it made her frown more deeply than she imagined possible.
“I know. But that doesn’t mean that there isn’t something out there that can make you feel better,” she consoled. “We’ll keep looking… But right now, I think you need rest. You haven’t slept in a few days, and your body needs rest.”
Reticence read on all of his features. For a brief moment, she worried that he would say no, but he surprised her by closing his eyes and nodding his head. He didn’t speak, but the small act was all the concession she needed.
One of his arms draped across her shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh. And she in turn wrapped an arm around his waist, so she could guide him wordlessly to the bedroom. They moved incredibly slow, each step gingerly and thoughtfully executed as though it were a complex dance.
By the time they crossed the threshold to the bedroom, House was sweating. His perspiration dripped off of him in rivulets, and she could feel his musky warmth along the back of her neck and shoulders. Another reason to take a shower as soon as possible, she thought bitterly.
As she pulled the covers back, she considered complaining about it. Part of her could justify it to the rest of her self, she knew; he’d spent the whole day screwing her over while she’d cared for him, and she would have liked nothing more than to point out how thankless a job nursing him was.
Instead Cuddy helped him into bed. He was in no shape for a fight (even if she was), and besides, her anger wasn’t really at him. Hell, she wasn’t even truly angry. She was just tired - exhausted - dirty, frustrated, and overall the emotional equivalent of a dishtowel that had been rung too hard. And so, as she unceremoniously dropped the covers on top of House, she muttered, “I’m taking a shower.”
There was no question in it, no opportunity for him to ask her for something - although she did smartly move the trashcan in the room next to the bed (just in case). Her words were a statement as firm as she could make it without being cruel. Which was precisely what she wanted; although she would have gotten him anything he’d asked for, Cuddy wanted - needed - him to comprehend just how big a priority showering was for her now. And as she, clean clothes in hand, disappeared into the bathroom, she patted herself on the back for getting that message across perfectly.
Glancing at herself briefly in the bathroom mirror, she felt a taste of retroactive fear niggle at the back of her throat.
She looked like shit.
There was no other way to describe herself at this point.
Her hair looked as though it hadn’t been brushed in days, bushy curls tangled in on one another. Her bottom lip was swollen, giving her a constant pout that, coupled with Wilson’s row of neat, tiny stitches, made her look ridiculous and pathetic. The purplish ring around her neck and the blood smeared on the front of her sweater only accentuated that fact. And it all combined together to give her the deep impression that if Wilson hadn’t barged in to the exam room…
Cuddy sighed and didn’t finish the thought.
It was enough to know what might have happened; she didn’t need to say it - or, well, think it. So she pushed the thought to the side, telling herself that what could have happened wasn’t nearly as important as what had happened.
As she pulled her skirt over her battered knees, she tried to focus on how things had changed for the better today. Things with House were roughly where they’d been before, which wasn’t good or bad really, but Wilson no longer looked at her as though she’d shot Amber in the face.
To be honest, Cuddy wasn’t sure she’d deserved such forgiveness. It was an almost ironic stance to take, she realized, as she stepped into the shower. After all, she’d been the one to ask Wilson to forgive her. And if she’d really, truly felt so unworthy of it, she shouldn’t have taken the initiative to get it. But in any case, part of her still wondered… no, part of her still believed that his anger towards her had been deserved.
As Cuddy shampooed her hair, she understood that House must have been feeling the same way. Wanting Wilson’s friendship, all the while knowing how wrong it was to ask for it… for the first time, Cuddy thought that she was in the same boat as House. Or maybe not, because she could talk - no, she had talked to Wilson and taken a step forward where as House hadn’t.
But they were in the same ocean of… whatever, the metaphor slipping from her mind as easily as soap slid down the curves of her hips. However you wanted to say it, Cuddy decided that it all amounted to the same thing: they were desperate and desperately waiting for Wilson’s friendship.
The only difference was, at this point, Cuddy was getting it.
House… was not.
Whatever she’d done for Wilson professionally today, whatever she’d said to him... that hadn’t done much for her. But coupling that with him seeing her get attacked had earned her the smallest of stepping stones to something better. They weren’t back to the way things were, of course. And Cuddy thought that there was a good chance that they never would be. They would probably never have the cool camaraderie that they’d had in the past again.
She accepted that much, accepted it almost happily, because she thought that they could develop something more meaningful now.
Obviously it was too early to tell either way, but she felt that today had been the beginning of a real friendship with Wilson. She’d shown him - well, she hoped she had - that she could, that she did trust him as much as she trusted House professionally. And although Wilson had talked to her about House, he hadn’t been the focus of the conversation, and there was something incredibly wonderful about that. In the very least, it had given her a chance to talk to Wilson as someone other than a co-conspirator.
Sighing into the humid air, Cuddy told herself not to put too much faith in today’s events. Maybe conversations with him would be more at ease, but she couldn’t count on it. Frankly, given her luck, it would take a hell of a lot more than being strangled to get her back into his good graces.
The depressing thought clung to her consciousness in the same way her wet hair stuck to her neck and upper back.
As she washed away the last remnants of soap, she frowned, feeling as though nothing that lie outside of the bathroom was worthwhile.
… Of course, there wasn’t much in the bathroom that was either.
But at least there was hot water beating down her aching back in here; at least there was the feeling that she was getting exactly what she wanted and anticipated, no emotional tripwires or interpersonal landmines existing for her to step on. Quite frankly, the peace the tiny room was offering was something she wasn’t eager to move away from.
Yet she knew that she had to. Her skin was beginning to prune. The water would soon start to cool, and if that happened, House wouldn’t be able to take a bath for at least another hour. And although he probably wouldn’t care all that much about it, Cuddy knew that she definitely would; as used to his smell as she was, it wasn’t exactly something she wanted to sleep next to.
Pushing her wet hair off the back of her neck, she knew she had to get out, even if she really didn’t want to.
Cool air hit her in the face the second Cuddy pulled the shower curtain back. She hadn’t noticed the air conditioning on before, but there was no denying its presence now.
She scowled at the change in temperature and quickly reached for the clean clothes she’d brought with her. It was easy to slip into the yoga pants and t-shirt, which was a nice contrast to the careful and conscious primping she’d had to do this morning. Combing her fingers through her hair, Cuddy exited the bathroom in a matter of minutes.
House, possibly still dealing with the side effects of the lidocaine, would probably make fun of her appearance. He was used to seeing her look a lot better with tight skirts and low-cut tops and hair coifed in such a way as to make her look like something other than a drowned terrier. And as she dumped her dirty clothes in a laundry hamper in the hallway, she resigned herself to hearing about just how terrible she looked.
But oddly enough, when she entered the bedroom, he murmured his approval - not his disdain. He was lying in the bed where she’d left him. Only he must have moved, because the rabbit, the stupid rabbit that she kept forgetting to return, was now also on the bed with him. It was trying to burrow itself under the covers on her side of the bed.
Cuddy silently fuming at the possibility of rabbit pee (or worse), she was taken aback by House saying with a smirk on his face, “No bra…. Daddy likey.”
His eyes were roaming over her body as though she were standing in front of him wearing pasties and a g-string with a box of condoms in her hand.
Well, what else was new?
She rolled her eyes and lackadaisically told him, “Don’t put the rabbit on the bed.” To emphasize the point, she grabbed the creature and placed it back in its pen. “And don’t call yourself daddy when you’re looking at me like that. It’s creepy.”
As she gave her side of the bed a quick pat to see if there were any wet spots, House replied, “Yes, Mommy.”
“I can only assume that, since you’re back at your usual level of asshood, you’re feeling better,” she said, crawling under the covers next to him.
Immediately her peevishness evaporated, and she closed her eyes happily. The heavy blankets on top of her instantly removed the chill that had settled on her. A soft pillow caressing her cheek, it was all she needed to be content at the moment.
Not even the smell of sweat and sandwich meat wafting off of House could pull her out of her bliss. Because, despite the burgeoning desire to take a hose to him, there was something comforting about the obnoxiousness of his presence. It made her feel…
Safe.
It was odd, because House was hardly the protector type. If push came to shove, he’d let her take the hit before he even considered getting involved. But then again, he was such an asshole that anyone wishing her harm would feel compelled to kill him first, which would give her time to escape….
And why she was even thinking about this now, she didn’t know. Just the thought of a deliriously tired woman, she supposed.
Forcing her eyes open once more, she didn’t want that to be the last thing in her mind before she fell asleep.
Her attention and gaze focused on House, she asked, “Are you feeling better?”
“Peachy,” he muttered. But then as an afterthought, he conceded, “About the same as before I took the lidocaine.”
She nodded her head in understanding but didn’t say anything. Honestly, she wasn’t sure what she could say to him to make him feel better. I’m sorry, perhaps?
The apology didn’t sound right in her head, and she had no doubt that he would agree with her on that. So she decided to remain silent and wait him out.
And when he did speak moments later, she wished almost immediately that she had said something. He was looking for clarity when he asked, “This was Wilson’s idea?” But she could tell that something else, a theory of sorts, was being mulled over in his mind.
“He mentioned it as a treatment for tinnitus,” she said, her gaze focused on him. Although she couldn’t tell where this was headed, already, Cuddy could tell that she didn’t like it.
House looked at her carefully before looking up at the ceiling. He was quiet with concentration, his crow’s feet more prominent as he considered some unlikely possibility in his mind.
Finally he asked, “And he knew that this was for me?”
Belatedly she answered. “No… He just speculated on his own that…”
She didn’t finish the thought.
Rolling away from her, House had clearly already made up his mind on how the conversation with Wilson had gone. And nothing she could say was going to change that, more than likely.
But she supposed she had to try.
Rolling over onto her side as well, she scooted her body along the mattress until her chest was pressed up against his back.
The move was bold, one she hadn’t thought out at all. And almost immediately she reconsidered the closeness as soon as she realized what she was doing. Because while any sane person would say that she’d already crossed a line, somehow each breach of said line felt more inappropriate than the last.
But Cuddy also understood that she couldn’t pull away now. Not really anyway, because rolling away from him would only point out what she’d done.
As a result she stayed where she was and returned her focus to House’s interpretation of Wilson’s lidocaine suggestion. “Don’t let your mind turn this into something it’s not,” she told him quietly. “I know that it would have been nice if Wilson had told me about the lidocaine to help you, but that’s just not how it came up.” She was trying to be as kind as she could about the whole ordeal, but she wasn’t sure that House was buying it. “Please don’t take this personally.”
“Wilson hates me,” House replied slowly in a low, depressed voice. “If he’d known that you were going to use what he told you to help me…”
It hit Cuddy then that there was a definite possibility that House’s tinnitus might never be cured by medicine alone. As much as she’d considered his brain injury, his depression, and his antidepressants, she hadn’t really thought about any of it beyond the physical aspects. Decreases in serotonin had crossed her mind, yes, but the way his mind could convince his body that there was pain had not.
The box she’d been thinking in seemed to burst into flames at that realization, hurling her into a world that she hadn’t even understood was there. To no exaggeration, the knowledge smacking her in the face made her feel as though she’d combined hydrogen and oxygen together for the first time ever, the possibilities this one fact brought endless.
She’d considered so many things. She’d berated herself for not finding an answer that would work and despised the entire situation she’d found herself in, because there’d been no solution in sight.
But now… there was a whole realm of possibilities she had to look at, and quite frankly, she relished it.
Thinking about it some more, of course, she felt like an idiot for having not seen it before.
His pain - the tinnitus - was more than likely psychosomatic.
He’d had this problem before. When Stacy had quit working at the hospital and moved away with her husband, House had been in an exorbitant amount of pain. He’d been in so much agony, so blinded by it, that he’d been willing to do almost anything to make it stop.
Cuddy had seen as much when he’d demanded morphine in his spine.
And how she’d ever been able to push that incident out of her mind was beyond her understanding, because now it was all she could think about. Now it framed every event of the last two months and painted House’s behavior in a light she hadn’t considered before.
All of the pain he’d been feeling, all of the physical things she’d tried to manage with medication - if it had a psychological basis, then nothing she’d been doing was ever going to help.
And knowing that, knowing that House’s problems could be psychosomatic, Cuddy understood what it was that she had to do:
She had to deal with the psychological issues behind House’s pain in order for him to get better. And in this particular case, there was only one foreseeable way of handling this specific problem.
Wilson.
She would need to get Wilson to forgive House.
She would need to get the two men back to a place where they could be friends again.
But how to do that… she had no real idea. Getting them in a room would be hard enough. Although she suspected she could get them together through simple lies, Cuddy understood that they would both completely shut down once they learned the truth. Wilson would leave or House would act like a jackass, and all of her lies would be for naught.
At the same time, though, it wasn’t exactly like telling them the truth would yield much better results. House was afraid - literally afraid - of what Wilson might say, so House wouldn’t agree to a meeting.
And Wilson wasn’t going to be much better.
If anything, he would be harder, because at least she had a good relationship (well, as good as it could be) with House. Wilson, on the other hand, didn’t trust her much if at all these days. So getting him in the same room as House… well, it would require her to use what little cache she had left, and even then it would probably be a resounding failure. Because on top of getting them in the same location, there was the issue of getting them to say to one another all of the right things.
And that would probably never happen.
Actually, that more than likely couldn’t happen.
What Wilson needed to say and what House needed to hear and vice versa were nearly polar opposites. Wilson needed House to accept responsibility for what had happened to Amber, but House desperately needed Wilson to say that he didn’t blame him for her death. And since both men were impossibly stubborn, Cuddy doubted that a conversation between them could go well.
Yet it was so clear to her that, for all of their sakes, it was what had to happen.
It was what she had to make happen.
Reiterating that sentiment unknowingly, House spoke up suddenly, “He wouldn’t have told you about the lidocaine if he’d known that it was to help me. And when he finds out that you were trying to help me…”
He didn’t finish the thought.
But then he didn’t really need to. Since she was pressed up against him, she could feel the tiny shifts in his body. She could feel the deep, shaking breaths he was taking and the small motions he made as he rubbed at his injured thigh. It all spoke for him, telling her that he was worried… upset.
Instinctively she wrapped an arm around his waist, bringing him closer to her. “Wilson isn’t going to find out, and if he does, he’s not going to care that I used his idea to treat you.”
Spooned up against him, Cuddy could feel his body reverberate lightly as he confessed miserably, “Wilson hates me.”
“That’s not true,” she told him immediately, feeling his fingers lace through hers. “He doesn’t hate you.”
House shook his head. “Yeah. He does.”
“Wilson is trying to make sense of what happened to his girlfriend,” Cuddy said in a quiet, imploring voice. “He’s mad and upset, and he needs time. But he does not hate you.”
Truth be told, she wasn’t sure how believable she sounded. Her words, as reasonable as they were, were ones that she couldn’t even convince herself of. As much as she wanted to believe that Wilson could forgive House, at this point, Cuddy didn’t know if that was actually possible.
And if House felt similarly, he didn’t tell her. He just lay there next to her in silence for a few moments before completely changing the subject. Teasing her, he said, “So this really is the most action you’ve had in years, huh.”
“Go to Hell,” she replied in kind, the words devoid of any harshness. But even so, as he tucked her hand into his chest, it was blatantly obvious:
They were already in Hell.
And if they ever hoped to get out, it was up to her to make that happen.
That knowledge weighing heavily on her conscience, it took her a few minutes to fall asleep. Her head on his pillow, when she finally did succumb to exhaustion, she was still holding his hand.
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