Post by Lisa Cuddy on Jul 24, 2007 20:32:46 GMT -5
Chapter rating: Pg-13
Chapter 16: You Wreck Me
He kneeled behind her, holding back her hair as she wretched violently over the porcelain bowl. Her pale hands clung to the sides of the white toilet, almost matched the color, sliding down and causing her to lose her balance when the throes of her surging stomach hit their most vehement crescendo. She almost collapsed forward, her stomach at last empty of not only food, but all the bile it had produced in reaction to her illness. The dry heaving had been the most excruciating, her intestinal tract all but caving in on itself in a series of cramps and undulating waves of nausea that had no relief.
House put his hands on her shoulders, letting her gasp for air now that the fit of being sick had passed. He eased her against him, her trembling back against his chest. She rested her head against his shoulder, feeling almost certain she was beyond putting him in danger of being thrown up on. He put his hand to her forehead, sighing and shaking his head.
“You should have told me.”
“I shouldn’t have gotten so drunk.”
“I’m glad we agree that it’s your fault entirely,” he grunted, getting to his feet gingerly, struggling between his own disability and helping her to her feet. She leaned most of her weight on him, which did not help matters, knocking him slightly off balance. It was a precarious position for a man with only one good leg to be in, and he did not enjoy it in the least. Still, he would rather they both fell than let her fall alone. Keeping his grip firm, yet gentle, he supported her as they walked, both limping, back into his bedroom.
He eased her onto the bed, careful of the physical manifestation of agony that had replaced her stomach. She kept her hands on the tender area, though, she could do very little to diminish the pain. Whimpering softly, she relaxed into the soft bed, her head propped up on two pillows. She kept the sheets down around her feet, feeling far too hot to have them over her.
Though the pain in her stomach was the most consuming, her entire body ached from the fever. She had no energy, her limbs heavy and incompetent. They refused to work for her, which had made her desperate run to the bathroom something like an Olympic event that she had not actually qualified for. She was hot, her veins pulsing magma, her head foggy from the fever that raged unchecked.
Alcohol usually amplified the affects of most cold and flu oriented medication. But it also came with its own set of side effects. These side effects, headache, nausea, disorientation, took on a life of their own when they met the prescription strength medication Cuddy had wantonly taken in her bloodstream. She hadn’t anticipated the reaction to be so violent, but in retrospect, as Dean of Medicine, she probably should have known better. It was a bad idea to take any kind of medication with alcohol. Hindsight did nothing but make her feel worse.
House, cane in hand, made his way into the kitchen to prepare an ice pack for her. He only had a vague idea about what hour it was. Early in the morning. He imagined it was going to be a long night, with very few of the moments it would invariably include belonging to sleep. Carrying the cold ice pack back for Cuddy, he sighed and shook his head. One moment he had been placidly cuddling with her, sleeping in the comfort of their shared warmth, the next he had been struggling to keep up behind her as she darted haphazardly for the bathroom. He had to admit, her strangled cry and sudden movement from his arms had very nearly terrified him.
He sat softly on the side of the bed, as near to her as he could without stirring her from her fleeting rest. She looked at him irregardless of his efforts, her eyes agonized and miserable. He put the ice pack on her forehead, the sudden chill sending a shiver through her body that was accompanied by sharp intake of air. Looking into her face impassively, he touched her cheek with his still icy hands and sighed.
“We should probably take you to a hospital,” he said, picking his wording carefully, “I’m no good with house calls.”
Cuddy snorted a contemptuous laugh, “Please. Your name is in it. I’m fine. I’m sure we two can handle this. We’re both doctors, right?”
“Well, I am, anyway. You. You’re an idiot,” House stood abruptly, the movement sending a wave of pain through her abdomen that she informed him about by articulating it with a groan. He looked at her, frowned, and then pulled open a nearby bedside cabinet drawer. Producing a pill bottle, he let one vicodin tablet fall into his palm, then returned to his seat besides Cuddy, looming over her. She looked up at him, not having been watching, and arched an eyebrow. He proffered the small pill, and she shook her head as violently as she dared with the explosive headache just lurking behind her eyes.
“I’m cramping, not imploding. And I’m pretty sure the last thing I need right now is more junk in my bloodstream.”
“Your body is flushing out the bad, bad alcohol. The vicodin won’t kill you. Just take it. I won’t be able to go back to sleep with you groaning all night.” He helped her sit up, careful of her wince, and put the pill to her lips without waiting for a reply. Sighing, she opened her mouth and took it onto her tongue, accepting the glass of water he held out to her and taking a small sip of it to wash the pill down. She watched him as he sighed again, his hand scratching through his scruffy hair.
“You’re getting sick, aren’t you?” Cuddy asked, accusation in her tone. House sniffed and waved dismissively. Cuddy, settling back into the pillows, was not dissuaded, “your eyes are glossy, and you keep sighing. Are you catching my cold?”
“I don’t see why that’s surprising,” He took the ice pack, which had slipped down when she sat up, and replaced it on her still burning forehead. He frowned as he felt the heat, noting that he would need to take her temperature, just to be safe. It was then, watching her with soft, worried eyes, that he realized how sick she really was, and regretted the way he was treating her. Something inside him and switched over to ‘patient care’ mode. His terrible bedside manner and short demeanor had come into play, against a woman who certainly did not deserve it. She was not a stranger to him. A patient whose name he would never bother to learn. He leaned forward and, to her surprise, kissed her on the cheek.
“What was that for?”
“I need to take your temperature. I know you don’t feel like it, but you need the covers on you. It’s freezing tonight, and your body doesn’t need the exposure. Besides, what was it they used to say about sweating out a fever? I’m going to get my thermometer. Do you need anything?” He was already standing and halfway to the bathroom by the time he asked his question. Cuddy did not reply, and he assumed it was because she did not require anything from him, beyond his company.
Walking back into the room, he discovered her to be sleeping, deeply yet troubled. She hadn’t managed to tuck herself in, her body trembling in the cold night. He eased onto the bed beside her, settling in by putting his feet up and sitting up. If he were to lay down, he would be in almost the same position he was before she had gotten this sick. Her face was flushed, sweat beading on her forehead, her chest rising and falling heavily, a dream he could not fathom making her eyes dart back and forth beneath her closed eyelids. Her skin looked pallid, her muscles drawn tight. He imagined she was aching and extremely uncomfortable.
Careful not to wake her, he slid the old fashioned thermometer under her tongue, waiting for the seconds to tick by before taking it out and looking at the reading. The number 104.2 stared up at him, and he sighed once more, this time the weary sound was accompanied by a cough. He stifled it, unwilling to disturb his sick girlfriend. He paused for a moment, placing the thermometer on the bedside table, his thoughts suddenly thick and disoriented. His girlfriend was sick.
His. Girlfriend.
He watched her for a long time, absorbing every movement of her resting form, sifting between what was natural and what was caused by the illness. Pulling the sheets up over them, he moved to hold her, to ease her trembling, and to tell her without speaking that he was going to take care of her. She seemed to relax in his arms, a thin, but extremely powerful smile playing on the corners of her lips. He took from that slight curvature of her mouth a multitude of meanings, falling just short of a full blown epiphany. He was falling for her, hard, and he had a feeling she was right there beside him, falling for the first time. Suddenly feeling very responsible, he held her tenderly closer.
If they were in for a crash, they would have to bear it together. There was no chance of him letting her go.
“That’s a bit tight, House,” Cuddy’s voice punctured the silent night, the surprise coupled with her words forcing a laugh from his throat. He looked down at her, letting her shift in his arms. She reached up and removed the ice pack, turning onto her side to look him in the face. Her eyes were dull, exhausted, but shone with an adorable cheerfulness irregardless of her sickly condition, “what’s got you so clingy?”
House took the ice pack from her and smoothed it over her neck, causing her to moan appreciatively as she flopped onto her back once more. Her eyes closed, she hummed one of the tunes House had played her on the piano earlier that night, her voice deep and unnaturally crackled. House hummed along with her, using the ice pack to cool her shoulders and chest, careful not to stretch the neck of her shirt out too much, as well as her forehead and neck. She opened one eye and looked at him, expectant, suddenly remembering she had asked him a question.
Taking the hint, House shrugged, focusing on the heat her skin was producing and realizing that not all of it was borne of fever, “You were shaking. I just thought a little contact would do you some good.”
Cuddy bowed her head a little, blushing. He moved his hands over her, leaving the ice pack on the other side of her, then put his hand gently on her hip. She moved with his pull, being drawn closer to him and not resisting it in the slightest. He let his head touch hers, his nose just beside her ear, his breath following the line of her chin. She turned her face slightly toward his as he lifted his head slightly, his lips finding the very corner of hers. Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes and drew a deep breath.
“I lost the bet, huh?”
“You did indeed,” House’s voice smiled teasingly without a trace appearing on his face.
“What are you going to do with your winnings?” she was barely whispering, struggling to keep collected now that her drunkenness had subsided. There was no more words in her mind, and every effort at an explanation failed. She knew he saw beyond the heavy innuendo. She also knew he didn’t really have to.
“Haven’t decided,” House said, the stillness of the night and the low volume of Cuddy’s tone leading him to keep his own words down, “don’t you worry about that. I won’t let you forget. For now, just go to sleep. You’ve got work in the morning, right? You’ll be in no condition to go, but I bet you will anyway. Since you’ve proven yourself so adept at making decisions regarding your health, I won’t be surprised when you collapse on your desk.”
Cuddy moved so that her head could be turned to face him directly, their eyes level. She flashed him a strong, defiant grin, “you’ll just have to keep a good eye on me.”
“I think it’s rather irresponsible of you to ask me, a doctor who devotes himself to treating patients in the clinic, to put aside his professional duties to walk back and forth from your office and the clinic just to make sure you haven’t overdosed on alcohol and cold medicine again.”
“I think I’ll be fine,” Cuddy huffed, attempting to roll away from him. He tightened his arms around her, curling his body around hers to keep her from moving. Burying his chin into the crook of her neck and shoulder, he made sure she wasn’t going anywhere. She sighed, her back against his chest, her legs bent in the same pose as him, their bodies seemingly built to lie this way. He breathed her in, realizing he was cuddling and not caring about the word nor the relentless teasing he could be subjected to, and sighed.
And then, as the moment grew too perfect, as Cuddy eased into a deep sleep, and as House began to feel he was right where he needed to be, a sneeze echoed through the room. It startled Cuddy to the point of a short, halting scream. House erupted into laughter, hard and wild, hugging her tightly. She struggled against him, yelling at him for waking her up, and telling him to take something for his cold before he got any worse. He continued to laugh, and soon she found herself laughing with him. By the time their amusement tapered off, they were nestled comfortably once more, chuckling and giggling their way back to sleep.
He kneeled behind her, holding back her hair as she wretched violently over the porcelain bowl. Her pale hands clung to the sides of the white toilet, almost matched the color, sliding down and causing her to lose her balance when the throes of her surging stomach hit their most vehement crescendo. She almost collapsed forward, her stomach at last empty of not only food, but all the bile it had produced in reaction to her illness. The dry heaving had been the most excruciating, her intestinal tract all but caving in on itself in a series of cramps and undulating waves of nausea that had no relief.
House put his hands on her shoulders, letting her gasp for air now that the fit of being sick had passed. He eased her against him, her trembling back against his chest. She rested her head against his shoulder, feeling almost certain she was beyond putting him in danger of being thrown up on. He put his hand to her forehead, sighing and shaking his head.
“You should have told me.”
“I shouldn’t have gotten so drunk.”
“I’m glad we agree that it’s your fault entirely,” he grunted, getting to his feet gingerly, struggling between his own disability and helping her to her feet. She leaned most of her weight on him, which did not help matters, knocking him slightly off balance. It was a precarious position for a man with only one good leg to be in, and he did not enjoy it in the least. Still, he would rather they both fell than let her fall alone. Keeping his grip firm, yet gentle, he supported her as they walked, both limping, back into his bedroom.
He eased her onto the bed, careful of the physical manifestation of agony that had replaced her stomach. She kept her hands on the tender area, though, she could do very little to diminish the pain. Whimpering softly, she relaxed into the soft bed, her head propped up on two pillows. She kept the sheets down around her feet, feeling far too hot to have them over her.
Though the pain in her stomach was the most consuming, her entire body ached from the fever. She had no energy, her limbs heavy and incompetent. They refused to work for her, which had made her desperate run to the bathroom something like an Olympic event that she had not actually qualified for. She was hot, her veins pulsing magma, her head foggy from the fever that raged unchecked.
Alcohol usually amplified the affects of most cold and flu oriented medication. But it also came with its own set of side effects. These side effects, headache, nausea, disorientation, took on a life of their own when they met the prescription strength medication Cuddy had wantonly taken in her bloodstream. She hadn’t anticipated the reaction to be so violent, but in retrospect, as Dean of Medicine, she probably should have known better. It was a bad idea to take any kind of medication with alcohol. Hindsight did nothing but make her feel worse.
House, cane in hand, made his way into the kitchen to prepare an ice pack for her. He only had a vague idea about what hour it was. Early in the morning. He imagined it was going to be a long night, with very few of the moments it would invariably include belonging to sleep. Carrying the cold ice pack back for Cuddy, he sighed and shook his head. One moment he had been placidly cuddling with her, sleeping in the comfort of their shared warmth, the next he had been struggling to keep up behind her as she darted haphazardly for the bathroom. He had to admit, her strangled cry and sudden movement from his arms had very nearly terrified him.
He sat softly on the side of the bed, as near to her as he could without stirring her from her fleeting rest. She looked at him irregardless of his efforts, her eyes agonized and miserable. He put the ice pack on her forehead, the sudden chill sending a shiver through her body that was accompanied by sharp intake of air. Looking into her face impassively, he touched her cheek with his still icy hands and sighed.
“We should probably take you to a hospital,” he said, picking his wording carefully, “I’m no good with house calls.”
Cuddy snorted a contemptuous laugh, “Please. Your name is in it. I’m fine. I’m sure we two can handle this. We’re both doctors, right?”
“Well, I am, anyway. You. You’re an idiot,” House stood abruptly, the movement sending a wave of pain through her abdomen that she informed him about by articulating it with a groan. He looked at her, frowned, and then pulled open a nearby bedside cabinet drawer. Producing a pill bottle, he let one vicodin tablet fall into his palm, then returned to his seat besides Cuddy, looming over her. She looked up at him, not having been watching, and arched an eyebrow. He proffered the small pill, and she shook her head as violently as she dared with the explosive headache just lurking behind her eyes.
“I’m cramping, not imploding. And I’m pretty sure the last thing I need right now is more junk in my bloodstream.”
“Your body is flushing out the bad, bad alcohol. The vicodin won’t kill you. Just take it. I won’t be able to go back to sleep with you groaning all night.” He helped her sit up, careful of her wince, and put the pill to her lips without waiting for a reply. Sighing, she opened her mouth and took it onto her tongue, accepting the glass of water he held out to her and taking a small sip of it to wash the pill down. She watched him as he sighed again, his hand scratching through his scruffy hair.
“You’re getting sick, aren’t you?” Cuddy asked, accusation in her tone. House sniffed and waved dismissively. Cuddy, settling back into the pillows, was not dissuaded, “your eyes are glossy, and you keep sighing. Are you catching my cold?”
“I don’t see why that’s surprising,” He took the ice pack, which had slipped down when she sat up, and replaced it on her still burning forehead. He frowned as he felt the heat, noting that he would need to take her temperature, just to be safe. It was then, watching her with soft, worried eyes, that he realized how sick she really was, and regretted the way he was treating her. Something inside him and switched over to ‘patient care’ mode. His terrible bedside manner and short demeanor had come into play, against a woman who certainly did not deserve it. She was not a stranger to him. A patient whose name he would never bother to learn. He leaned forward and, to her surprise, kissed her on the cheek.
“What was that for?”
“I need to take your temperature. I know you don’t feel like it, but you need the covers on you. It’s freezing tonight, and your body doesn’t need the exposure. Besides, what was it they used to say about sweating out a fever? I’m going to get my thermometer. Do you need anything?” He was already standing and halfway to the bathroom by the time he asked his question. Cuddy did not reply, and he assumed it was because she did not require anything from him, beyond his company.
Walking back into the room, he discovered her to be sleeping, deeply yet troubled. She hadn’t managed to tuck herself in, her body trembling in the cold night. He eased onto the bed beside her, settling in by putting his feet up and sitting up. If he were to lay down, he would be in almost the same position he was before she had gotten this sick. Her face was flushed, sweat beading on her forehead, her chest rising and falling heavily, a dream he could not fathom making her eyes dart back and forth beneath her closed eyelids. Her skin looked pallid, her muscles drawn tight. He imagined she was aching and extremely uncomfortable.
Careful not to wake her, he slid the old fashioned thermometer under her tongue, waiting for the seconds to tick by before taking it out and looking at the reading. The number 104.2 stared up at him, and he sighed once more, this time the weary sound was accompanied by a cough. He stifled it, unwilling to disturb his sick girlfriend. He paused for a moment, placing the thermometer on the bedside table, his thoughts suddenly thick and disoriented. His girlfriend was sick.
His. Girlfriend.
He watched her for a long time, absorbing every movement of her resting form, sifting between what was natural and what was caused by the illness. Pulling the sheets up over them, he moved to hold her, to ease her trembling, and to tell her without speaking that he was going to take care of her. She seemed to relax in his arms, a thin, but extremely powerful smile playing on the corners of her lips. He took from that slight curvature of her mouth a multitude of meanings, falling just short of a full blown epiphany. He was falling for her, hard, and he had a feeling she was right there beside him, falling for the first time. Suddenly feeling very responsible, he held her tenderly closer.
If they were in for a crash, they would have to bear it together. There was no chance of him letting her go.
“That’s a bit tight, House,” Cuddy’s voice punctured the silent night, the surprise coupled with her words forcing a laugh from his throat. He looked down at her, letting her shift in his arms. She reached up and removed the ice pack, turning onto her side to look him in the face. Her eyes were dull, exhausted, but shone with an adorable cheerfulness irregardless of her sickly condition, “what’s got you so clingy?”
House took the ice pack from her and smoothed it over her neck, causing her to moan appreciatively as she flopped onto her back once more. Her eyes closed, she hummed one of the tunes House had played her on the piano earlier that night, her voice deep and unnaturally crackled. House hummed along with her, using the ice pack to cool her shoulders and chest, careful not to stretch the neck of her shirt out too much, as well as her forehead and neck. She opened one eye and looked at him, expectant, suddenly remembering she had asked him a question.
Taking the hint, House shrugged, focusing on the heat her skin was producing and realizing that not all of it was borne of fever, “You were shaking. I just thought a little contact would do you some good.”
Cuddy bowed her head a little, blushing. He moved his hands over her, leaving the ice pack on the other side of her, then put his hand gently on her hip. She moved with his pull, being drawn closer to him and not resisting it in the slightest. He let his head touch hers, his nose just beside her ear, his breath following the line of her chin. She turned her face slightly toward his as he lifted his head slightly, his lips finding the very corner of hers. Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes and drew a deep breath.
“I lost the bet, huh?”
“You did indeed,” House’s voice smiled teasingly without a trace appearing on his face.
“What are you going to do with your winnings?” she was barely whispering, struggling to keep collected now that her drunkenness had subsided. There was no more words in her mind, and every effort at an explanation failed. She knew he saw beyond the heavy innuendo. She also knew he didn’t really have to.
“Haven’t decided,” House said, the stillness of the night and the low volume of Cuddy’s tone leading him to keep his own words down, “don’t you worry about that. I won’t let you forget. For now, just go to sleep. You’ve got work in the morning, right? You’ll be in no condition to go, but I bet you will anyway. Since you’ve proven yourself so adept at making decisions regarding your health, I won’t be surprised when you collapse on your desk.”
Cuddy moved so that her head could be turned to face him directly, their eyes level. She flashed him a strong, defiant grin, “you’ll just have to keep a good eye on me.”
“I think it’s rather irresponsible of you to ask me, a doctor who devotes himself to treating patients in the clinic, to put aside his professional duties to walk back and forth from your office and the clinic just to make sure you haven’t overdosed on alcohol and cold medicine again.”
“I think I’ll be fine,” Cuddy huffed, attempting to roll away from him. He tightened his arms around her, curling his body around hers to keep her from moving. Burying his chin into the crook of her neck and shoulder, he made sure she wasn’t going anywhere. She sighed, her back against his chest, her legs bent in the same pose as him, their bodies seemingly built to lie this way. He breathed her in, realizing he was cuddling and not caring about the word nor the relentless teasing he could be subjected to, and sighed.
And then, as the moment grew too perfect, as Cuddy eased into a deep sleep, and as House began to feel he was right where he needed to be, a sneeze echoed through the room. It startled Cuddy to the point of a short, halting scream. House erupted into laughter, hard and wild, hugging her tightly. She struggled against him, yelling at him for waking her up, and telling him to take something for his cold before he got any worse. He continued to laugh, and soon she found herself laughing with him. By the time their amusement tapered off, they were nestled comfortably once more, chuckling and giggling their way back to sleep.