Time in Technicolor: Part 3
Tuesday Nov. 13, 7:01 PM
It was dark: all cool light and soft shadows, only what filtered in between the blinds-enough to see by, discern shapes and hints of colors, and right now, that was all he needed. House sat with his feet propped up on his desk, rolling a ball of rubber bands around and around his fingers, liking the rough irregularity of its surface, the acrid scent of rubber. He tried bouncing it against the floor, but it ricocheted wildly, hurt his already pounding head to lunge and catch it. For a second he saw stars, but blinked them away.
The blinds rustled, clanking as someone-no, three someones-strode through them and into the room. “How long have you been here?” Cameron’s voice was shrill and disapproving, but House’s only answer was to begin tossing the ball and catching it with one hand. “We called you two-and-a-half hours ago.”
“You said ten minutes,” Chase added, quick to defend his girlfriend, and right about now Foreman would be rolling his eyes. “She’s slipping into a coma.”
The ball hit the palm of House’s hand, thudding to the ground. He felt it, heard it, but somehow it still barely registered. He shot out of his seat, the movement seeming to trigger the lights: the sudden glare a harsh, unforgiving yellow. His hand flew up to shade his eyes, his borrowed cane clattering.
It was a moment his team seemed to have choreographed for themselves, while House was left to stumble awkwardly through the moves: Chase bent to retrieve the cane, Foreman stepped away from the light switch, and Cameron headed to the whiteboard. The light glinted off its surface, the marker squeaking softly: leth./sleep --- coma.
House had forgotten he had a patient.
“Seizure’s stopped but the kidney failure….” Cameron trailed off, indignation leaving her features to make room for surprise, even that quickly melting to concern. “What happened to your face?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
He didn’t know whether to be annoyed that his team was so far out of the loop or glad that he didn’t have to deal with their knowing glances, the question written on all their faces that even Foreman wouldn’t have the guts to ask. House had seen the beginnings of it down in the ER. By tomorrow, a dozen different stories would be circulating about the Dean and the Diagnostician. Usually House was the last to dispel any rumors, the first to begin them. Most of them would be ridiculous enough to earn General Hospital a Daytime Emmy, and those, of course, he would encourage. But any that that even orbited the truth struck a nerve (no, all of them).
“It looks like you were beaten up,” Chase observed, peering curiously.
“It looks like your mother slept with her own brother about nine months before you were born, but I don’t feel the need to go around pointing it out.”
Foreman had apparently had enough of this, realized they were getting nowhere, or maybe thought it was all another game that he simply wasn’t going to indulge. “If we don’t find a way to stop the seizures-”
“You’re the neurologist,” House interrupted, and though none of the words themselves were particularly biting, the force and tone behind them burned like acid.
Foreman was more or less unfazed, raised an eyebrow. “Multiple subpial transection. Like we agreed on before.”
“We did not agree,” Cameron countered, arms folded. “She’s only five and we have no proof that-”
“The younger the better. We don’t do something now, she won’t live to be six.” Foreman turned his head to stare at House. “Did you get Cuddy’s-”
“Why are you still here?” House snapped.
Chase frowned. “You haven’t given us anything to do yet.”
“What, you want me to hold your hands? You’re big kids now. Go.”
Foreman and Chase shared a look, but left the room, hands buried deep in their pockets. Cameron lingered in the doorway, took a step back towards him. “House. Are you okay?”
His eyes flicked up to hers, saw sympathy, worry, a simple need to understand. House was far beyond caring. “Save your pity for someone who can stand it,” he growled at last. “And turn off the damned light.”
Monday Nov. 12, 11:57 PM
House drummed his knuckles with greater force against the glass, still keeping with the familiar, playful rhythm: shave and a haircut, two bits. He’d chanced the window instead of knocking on the door. It wasn’t easy without the ketamine-induced numbness, and his leg was protesting loudly, but even the idea of catching a glimpse of her before she put on a bathrobe made all the pain worth it.
He was about to rap on the window again when the room suddenly filled with a warm light: a creamy gold like melted butter that filtered lazily through the filmy curtains. Cuddy had risen and clicked on a lamp, her silhouette moving with such languid deliberateness that she must have known that he was the one out there.
The thin curtains (or his foggy mind) were screwing with his depth perception, because she pulled the curtains back before he was ready, and it startled him to see her suddenly so close, so sharply, through the near-transparent lens of the window, moisture beading in the corners of the panes of glass. His fantasies of thin-strapped tank tops and flimsy nightgowns quickly dissolved. House knew he should have known better: it was coming on winter-she wore pants and long sleeves. But the shirt, at least, was a thin white cotton, and he thought he saw the shadow of an areola, the swell of a nipple, as she stretched to open the window.
And this was everything he had wanted and why life would have been so much better without the invention of the phone: face-to-face (or whatever-to-whatever) was definitely the way to go. His smile was so slow and lazy that even he could feel it spreading, saw the fleeting image of the Cheshire Cat’s wide grin reflected in the window, toothy and taunting. But then the glass slid upward with a soft swish and Cuddy was before him, leaning on the window frame.
House watched her breath crystallize in the chilly air (and, more importantly, the rise and fall of her chest: hypnotic), the midnight silence almost too good to break. But one of them would have to speak eventually, and House always liked to have the upper hand. “Thought you could use a bedtime story.”
Cuddy stared, amused and annoyed. With anyone else there would have been incredulity, but he knew that she wouldn’t have expected anything less (or more) from him. “I was already asleep.”
“Was is the past tense, right? As in, used to be and is no longer?”
“It’s midnight, House. It’s cold-”
“Oh, I know,” he said with a smirk, and though he was sure she rolled her eyes, all he saw was the swift puffing up of her chest (a sigh), her arms folding across it immediately. “Like that’ll stop my x-ray vision.”
“If you woke me up just to make inappropriate comments-”
“Business before pleasure,” he interrupted, scolding lightly. “My boss’ll kill me otherwise.”
“Closer to becoming an actuality every second….”
It was hardly a threat when they both knew she’d never follow through with it. Still, House thought it best not to press his luck. “I need to take a look inside Sleeping Ugly’s brain.”
“Don’t call her that. She’s a little girl.”
“Have you seen this kid?” It was nothing personal, nothing in particular: he had yet to meet a child for which he’d found himself substituting words like cute or endearing for annoying pain in the ass.
Cuddy worried her bottom lip between her teeth, and there he had his answer. She wouldn’t back up his callous claim, but she had seen the girl and couldn’t deny what he had said either. In that instant-the nervous, guilty gesture-House thought he saw a glimmer of a smaller, almost childlike Cuddy, but it never formed into an actual image. Cuddy as a child…a child of Cuddy’s: same concept, just as inconceivable. House simply couldn’t picture her-or her breasts-in miniature.
“Don’t worry,” he added finally, “I’m sure she’ll grow up to have a great personality. Trick is, she’s gotta grow up.”
“You have no idea what’s wrong with her.” Not a question but an accusation-almost: it was softer somehow, but the intent still there. He had thought he’d played it cool enough that this fact might have escaped her.
“Takes all the fun out of the biopsy if you already have a diagnosis.”
“You don’t even have a theory. You’re just taking a shot with your eyes closed and hoping you hit something.”
“That’s a pretty irresponsible metaphor,” he tried to tease. “I’d at least make sure no one else was in the room.”
She didn’t laugh. Or even smile. It should have been too cold for crickets-maybe the sound of their chirping was only in his head, a comic exaggeration of the silence.
Either forgetting his earlier crack (and the distraction the movement would cause) or no longer caring, Cuddy unfolded her arms, seemed to need them to support herself on the windowsill. Her voice was suddenly soft as she pressed her forehead against the glass. “There’s really no other way?”
“This is the version of the fairy-tale where nobody thinks to change death to sleep,” he replied, almost gently. “Burn all the spinning wheels you want, Cuddy-it’ll only take one.”
She sighed, nodded. “Talk to the grandparents. Make sure they know what they’re consenting to.”
And his emotions were spinning: the thrill of victory continually knocking against something that felt very much like the agony of defeat. Though he would never understand her guilt, her sadness, he could still feel it breaking over him in waves, couldn’t tell exactly when that had begun to taint his triumphs over her.
Their conversation was over: he had gotten what he’d come for, and Cuddy was moving to close the window. The test he had succeeded in finagling-another in an almost endless series, but at least he was (almost) always right-suddenly seemed much less important than it had thirty seconds ago.
“Wait.” House grabbed her wrist, his fingers encircling it easily, felt thick and clumsy around her delicate bones, and he pretended to fumble for something in his pocket with his other hand. “I know I’ve got my all-access pass here somewhere.”
She shook her arm, trying to tug it from him, but he held her fast, forcing her to respond. “That expired.”
Ah, but it had existed: they could dance around the issue until their feet bled but neither would dare deny that.
“When?” he scoffed. “I don’t remember there being an expiration date.”
“A long time ago,” Cuddy muttered, succeeding in prying her wrist from his grip, her fingers colder than they should have been. She tried again to shut the window, but the only way she’d manage it would be to snap both his radius and ulna-or, at the very least, dislocate his elbow. Her fingers brushed against his and for a moment she stopped trying to fight him and let them linger there, seemed on the verge of giving in. One look at him and she quickly pulled away, her palm smacking the window in frustration. “House.”
He might have been able to overlook the softness in her tone, but the sudden fragility and vulnerability it uncovered were more difficult to ignore. The urge to crawl through the open window and support her was inexplicable and strange, suppressible, but just barely. He had to let go, take half a step back, force his eyes from her face to her chest (which didn’t take much force at all, really). It was simple enough to offer her something to which she could easily respond, and he stuck his head further through the open window without another thought, peering up at her and waggling his eyebrows. “If we’re gonna do this, I get to be on top.”
“In your dreams.” The tension slackened and Cuddy’s relief was visible, her voice strong and smooth; House tried to reason that it was better this way, almost (but not quite) succeeded.
“It worked for Tom Hanks,” he grumbled, making sure to pout. “But, fine. I don’t mind going a couple rounds-”
“He was a twelve-year-old,” Cuddy cut in, quick and stern, eyes narrowing. “And don’t think you’re getting the bottom either.”
“Kinky. I like it.”
“House.” She leaned down, was suddenly serious and so, so close-it was dangerous, this proximity, and he knew that was all that kept her from using it during every single one of their arguments, because it rendered him speechless every time. “Go back to your patient.”
Holding her gaze, he leaned back, clearing the window. He took the initiative when she didn’t shut it immediately, cocking his head but his eyes still staring straight into hers. “So if the missionary position’s not doing it for you anymore….”
And there was that grin: shyly flirtatious and undeniably sexy, the one she always seemed to know better than to use but was never able to stop. “Use your imagination.” Cuddy’s hands were on the window sash now, but she paused before sliding it down, smiling softly. “Goodnight, House.”
Tuesday Nov. 13, 7:53 PM
“House….”
It wasn’t sleep. Not really. More like an off-switch, a complete loss of thought: nothingness. It was almost nice, comforting, to momentarily forget everything he’d eventually have to remember, but whoever was out there seemed hell-bent on interrupting it.
“House. She’s been awake for-”
Pulling at thought, he took the first one that came to him and ran with it. “You’re supposed to be cutting her brain open, not waking her up.”
“I…don’t think we’re talking about the same person.”
It was Wilson. He should’ve recognized the voice, though it was lower, quieter than normal. And that was the trigger. Everything came flooding back: the pain, the dark face… Cuddy.
“How is she?” House asked quietly, failing at nonchalance.
Wilson approached his desk, gave a strange half-nod that ended in a shrug. “She asked if you were okay,” he answered (not really an answer at all), making eye contact for only a moment before looking away. “Go see her.”
Quiet thought was risky. Blind instinct kicked in: anything to fill the heavy silence. “Did she pay you to come drag me down there?”
“Of course not.”
“Doesn’t have to be money,” House continued, fiddling with his cane. “Sex… drugs… rock ‘n’ roll….”
“You’re an ass.” It was an accusation he’d definitely heard before, but not this new reason: “You should be down there.”
He had been down there, had stood in the doorway to the trauma room after Wilson had bandaged his head. The room had been more hushed than it normally might have been, the steady beeping of the EKG easily drowning out the low tones and whispers. Still, he had been on the verge of entering when a too-young doctor had wheeled in an ultrasound machine, lifting Cuddy’s shirt to squirt the cold gel on her stomach.
House had turned away then, already knowing what they wouldn’t find there. Whatever he did or said to her, it would be the wrong thing, wouldn’t come out as it should. He had a knack for that-usually used it to his advantage-but now….
“You go sit by her bedside if you’re so concerned-satisfy your nervous hand-wringing quota for the week.”
Frustration evident, Wilson finally looked at him, seemed to be choosing his words carefully before finally taking a breath to speak. “I’m not the one she wants there.”