cuddys_house | Sunday, 6th Nov, late afternoon

Sunday, 6th Nov, late afternoon

Within a matter of hours of arriving back to his apartment late Saturday night, House started to feel very run down.

The flight back from Europe had been tense, to say the least, made worse by the fact that he was hungover with an excruciating headache. His own fault for drinking so much the night before, though he secretly partly blamed it on Cuddy, too, because he wouldn't have gotten that drunk if it hadn't been for her. Needless to say, he was in a foul mood the entire trip back - and not just because of his hangover. Going home in and of itself was enough of an issue to put House in a bad mood. The horrible fight he'd had with Cuddy had felt like little more than a premonition of what was to come once they were back on home turf. The flight itself was uneventful, save for a few bouts of mild turbulence here and there, and uncomfortable because of the cramped seats. House was glad to get off the plane... and glad to just part ways from Cuddy for at least the night. He needed space to recuperate from how crap he felt, and from the aftermath of their fight. Cuddy probably felt the same way.

And after he hauled his things into his apartment from the cab he'd caught home, he didn't bother unpacking anything. He switched on the heating because a cold frost had settled over the night, the promises of a freezing winter ahead of him. He just wanted to slump down in front of the television and just be for a while. And that was when, after a couple of hours of doing this, he started to feel particularly unwell. He dismissed it as merely the effects of his hangover combined with a long haul flight and stress, but by 2 in the morning he had a stiff neck, sore throat and raised glands, a raised temperature, aching muscles and a splitting feverish headache. Perfect, he thought to himself as he limped stiffly down the hall to his bedroom. If the vacation couldn't have already ended on a bad enough note, now he was getting sick. Either this really was the result of stress, of everything running him down to the point where his immune system was flat, or he'd picked up some airborn bug on the plane. Or both. Arriving back to a cold Princeton after being in a warmer climate in Spain certainly wouldn't help.

He bundled himself under the covers in bed after taking a couple of painkillers, which brought his temperature down enough that he managed to fall asleep. It was restless sleep, however, the night seemed to last an eternity, and come morning he felt worse than ever. His temperature was back up, he was shivering cold even though his head felt like it was burning up, every muscle in his body hurt and he couldn't find a single comfortable position to get in without his head pounding or his neck tensing up with red hot stiffness.

House stayed huddled in bed, the heavy drapes drawn to shut out any light, and refused to get up. He only left his bed to go to the toilet or to get a drink of water, and he ignored the phone the few times it rang. In fact, the second time he got up for a drink, he unhooked the phone and left it that way. Just the mere sound of it ringing sent shards of pain stabbing through his head. By late afternoon, he just felt beyond vile and miserable.

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Cuddy had gone to bed almost as soon as she arrived home. No sleep the night before, the fight, and a long and less than pleasant flight home had all contributed to a state of exhaustion so extreme she could barely stay up long enough to brush her teeth and change into a nightgown. Twelve solid hours of sleep and a decent breakfast did a lot to restore her physical energy, though. Enough so that she got some laundry started and then headed for the grocery store to replenish her fridge and pantry.

After taking care of several mundane tasks, though, she knew she had to try to revive her emotional state. She'd been too tired and House too hung over to talk on the way home. They'd sort of agreed to a moratorium on the subject of their relationship. They hadn't actually said that but there was an implicit understanding that neither of them was in a good state of mind for dealing with heavy emotional issues. It had to be done, though, and Cuddy wasn't one to leave a problem unaddressed.

She made several calls to House's place, to his cell phone, even his pager as she puttered around the house. Eventually she got annoyed that he was apparently avoiding her. She actually left a load of clean clothes unfolded and drove to his apartment. He didn't answer her knocking any more than he had her calls. She gave a disgusted shake of her head as she reached over his door for the spare key. Avoidance was one thing--this was simply ridiculous.

"House?" She closed the door behind her and looked around the living room. It was empty as was the kitchen. The bathroom door was standing open and she didn't see or hear any sign of him in there so she walked to his bedroom door. She leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms over her chest when she saw tufts of hair sticking out of a big lump of bedding. Sometimes she forgot just how lazy he could be.

"Come on, House, rise and shine."

House was caught somewhere between sleep and fever-induced dozing, and at first he thought Cuddy calling his name was just part of his imagination. He was probably due for another painkiller because his body had started to take on that feverish chill again, to the point where he was shivering a little and his head burning up.

He heard footsteps on the floorboards in his apartment, though again he wasn't sure if he was imagining it. He doubted it would be Cuddy because surely she wanted to spend some time away from him. Yeah, he was positive he'd just imagined Cuddy's voice and her footsteps - until he heard her by the doorway.

He head pounded in reverberation to the sound of her voice, and he lifted his head from the pillow just enough to peek over the edge of the covers to look at her. His head hurt too much to focus properly on her; he screwed an eye shut as he peered at her, then dropped his head back to the pillow.

"What're you doing here?" he mumbled.

Cuddy watched as the wild tufts of hair moved and bleary eyes appeared below them. She rolled her eyes. He surely wasn't still hungover. Or again? No, even House wasn't that stupid. Actually, yes, he probably was that stupid but she hadn't seen any signs of a drunken binge--no empty bottles lying around. And she doubted he'd had the energy to go out and hit the bars. So cocooning in bed probably wasn't the result of booze. More likely it was simply the result of him being him and trying to avoid a conversation with her.

"I'm here because you didn't answer my calls or my pages."

She walked over and sat on the foot of the bed. This wasn't giving her a good feeling. Trying to work out their relationship problems wasn't her idea of a good time either but it had to be done. He knew it had to be done...unless he'd decided it wasn't worth the bother. She gave a little shake of her head; she wasn't going to jump to conclusions.

"I know you don't want to do this but we have to talk," she said, poking her finger into the lump of bedding and into some part of House hidden underneath.

So, that had been who called those times, House thought irritably. He supposed he should've known. He wasn't in any mood to talk, however, because the slightest sound made his head throb. Refusing to answer Cuddy, he tucked his face back under the covers and pulled the comforter up tighter around him to shut out the chill in his body.

But Cuddy being Cuddy clearly wasn't going to leave him alone. He felt the bed dip slightly as she took a seat on the end of it. Maybe if he just ignored her completely, she'd take the hint and leave him be until he felt better enough to face having a conversation. And right at that very point was when Cuddy said they needed to talk.

He shifted a little at being poked, aggravated that he was being disturbed. "Can't this happen another day?" he replied, his tone sharp and impatient.

Under the covers, he lifted a hand to his forehead and held it, not that doing such a thing would make his headache go away or make him feel better. He felt so cold - yet felt boiling hot at the same time. He realised, as he shifted under the covers, that he was sweating across his back. Which, he realised, was an indication that he needed to throw the covers off him before his temperature got any higher. He didn't want to, though, because he felt freezing.

He shoved the covers down to his waist and then propped himself up onto an elbow, squinting with all the discomfort of a guy with a serious headache. He felt revolting. Even his hair felt gritty and gross. "Seriously," he said, grimacing at the sound of his own voice ringing in his head, "can this wait?"

"No, it can't," Cuddy said, giving him another poke. "I don't want this hanging over me. Over us."

She was starting to get annoyed. And hurt. Part of her wasn't surprised House would try to avoid a serious conversation but she'd thought he wanted to resolve this as much as she did. There'd been a lot of horrible things said, a lot of pain, and the only thing that had allowed her to keep herself together was that she'd believed him when he said he was sorry.

Well, she wasn't going to sit there and beg him to talk to her. Either he cared about saving their relationship or he didn't. Whichever it was, he was going to have to do something. She was tired of having to drag the words out of him.

She was just about to get to her feet and leave when House pushed the covers down. "You look like hell," she said, taking in his appearance. Maybe he did have a hangover. He certainly appeared to be sensitive to light and sound, a good sign he had a headache. "What's wrong?"

God, he didn't want this hanging over them, either. In an ideal world, he and Cuddy could just return to normal and pretend that last night in Europe never happened. But that was in an ideal world, and House knew that ideal world would never become real, no matter how much he wished it would. But he didn't want to deal with this now. No way. Cuddy couldn't have picked a worse time to try and discuss any of this.

"Thanks for the compliment," he replied dryly, an eye still screwed shut and his other squinted to shield the light out. "Compliments like that always brighten my day."

He let both eyes fall shut and just stayed propped up on his elbow, hesitant to even move because he ached so much, his neck was so sore, and his head felt as fragile as glass. His skin had broken out into goosebumps, too, because of the fever. He managed to crack an eye open again at Cuddy's question.

"When someone looks like hell, it's usually an indication that they feel like hell, too," he replied sarcastically. He didn't want to tell her what was wrong because he didn't want a fuss made over him. But as he delicately and slowly lowered himself back down to the pillow, he conceded, "Think a bug got me in the mile-high club."

"What?"

Cuddy shifted up the bed and laid her hand against his forehead. It took about a second to realize he had a fever and about another second for all of her anger to evaporate. Being an ass would've been one thing. Actually being sick shifted her immediately into doctor/mother hen mode. She didn't think about it; it just happened. When she saw someone sick, especially someone she cared about, then she wanted to take care of him.

"When did you start feeling sick?" she asked as she took her hand away from his forehead and started to feel his neck for enlarged lymph nodes. "Any vomiting? Diarrhea? Stiff neck?"

House knew the moment he said anything about being unwell, Cuddy would instantly start clucking. He let out an exasperated sigh when she rested her hand on his forehead, and he turned his head away to make her stop that. And then she was reaching for his neck and lymph nodes.

"Last night," he replied dismissively. "Stiff neck. No vomiting or diarrhoea. Will you stop that?"

He batted her hand away from him. All the talk and sudden movement made his head throb and he lifted a hand to his face to shield his eyes. "Don't think I don't know how to check for these things myself," he added irritably. "But if you want to know the reason why I didn't take any of your calls, this is the reason. The sound of your voice can be headache inducing at the worst of times, let alone when I've already got one."

"How stiff?"

Her mind immediately jumped to meningitis. The viral kind would make him miserable for a couple of days but it would run its course without lasting damage. Bacterial meningitis, on the other hand, was a whole lot of scary. He'd have to be hospitalized and everyone he'd had contact with would need prophylactic antibiotics.

"I know you know how to check--that doesn't mean you will," she said, resisting his attempts to push her away just long enough to check his lymph nodes. She glared at him when he accused her of causing his headaches. If anyone was the primary cause of headaches, it was House. And she was usually the recipient.

"God, you're an ass," she muttered as she lifted her hands off him. "How stiff?" she asked again, more insistently. "And tell the truth. If I think you're lying, I'll have you hospitalized anyway. And I'll let a first year med student do your L.P."

"Trust me - I know when I'm dying," House shot back. This was nothing more than a virus, at the most. He was positive. He hadn't developed any new symptoms since he started to feel ill, so if this was something dire and life threatening, he was pretty sure he'd know by now. Granted, he was also stubborn enough to refuse help if it had been something life threatening, but that was beside the point.

"Some things about me never change," he agreed when Cuddy called him an ass. He opened his eyes long enough to then give Cuddy an assessing look. "As much as I appreciate your concern, I assure you it's not necessary. I'll offer my body up as the human equivalent of an orange to practice scary medical procedures on another time."

He flung his arm over his face, willing Cuddy to just go away. Or if she was going to insist on staying, for her to just shut the hell up and be quiet so the pounding in his head would stop. "Stiff like your hands are around my neck kind of stiff," he answered her. "In other words, incredibly unpleasant but I'll survive because I always do."

He pushed the covers back more, digging them down off him with his good foot while he struggled to get himself onto his elbows again. "If you really want to be useful, how about shutting up and getting my cane so I can go to the bathroom?"

Cuddy let out a frustrated sigh. She knew better than to think he'd let her take care of him--especially given his opinion of her medical skills--but it wouldn't kill him to give a straight answer to her questions. Although she might kill him if he didn't.

"Where is it?" She stood up and looked around his room for the cane. She was about to give up when she spied the rubber tipped end of the cane just barely sticking out from underneath the bed. She leaned over and pulled it out, sneezing when a few dust bunnies came floating out with it.

She watched him stumble his way toward the bathroom, then started down the hall in the other direction. "Have you had anything to eat or drink since you got home?" she called to him as she went into the kitchen. It only took a moment to confirm her suspicion--he had nothing in the fridge and next to nothing in the cupboards. That wasn't surprising given that they'd been out of the country for weeks but she knew now this was only slightly worse than usual.

If he really just had a virus all he needed was something to knock the fever down and fluids. Right now, his fluid choices were water and beer. And beer was off the list of recommended items for treating a virus. She headed back down the hall and waited outside the bathroom door for him to finish.

Getting out of bed was a huge effort. Just the headache and muscle aches alone made it difficult to find the strength to sit up, let alone stand. And once he was standing House realised how weak he felt, fatigued, dizzy. Knowing how he reacted to and recovered from most illnesses, this would probably pass as suddenly as it came on, but riding it out in the meantime would be fierce and hard-hitting. He didn't get sick often, but when he did get sick he got very sick, even if only for a short duration of time.

He limped slowly out to the bathroom and hooked his cane over the door on the door frame before heading over to the toilet. Hand braced on the wall for balance, he tugged his boxers down with his other hand and peed with his head hanging low. Which made him think about his neck stiffness. There was no evidence of nuchal rigidity, an inability to flex the neck forward which was a symptom of meningitis. His neck just felt stiff and aching and hot. He rolled his neck carefully a couple of times with an uncomfortable sigh, acutely aware of every single aching joint and muscle in his body and his throbbing headache.

"Water," he called back. He tucked himself back into his boxers, and flushed the toilet just as Cuddy appeared at the doorway. He threw her a cursory glance before heading over to the sink to wash his hands.

"No nuchal rigidity," he informed her. "No rash, that I can see. Means it's nothing to worry about. Probably be better by tomorrow, Tuesday at the latest. I'll be fine."

He shut the water off and just set his wet hands on the edge of the sink for a moment, his head bowed. He felt woozy and needed a moment for it to pass before he attempted to walk back to the bedroom. A weird nausea feeling dropped in his stomach and his legs felt weak and heavy as lead. He gripped the edge of the sink tighter as a buzzing sound filled his head and he hit a wave of visual brownout. His body felt suddenly hot, like his skin was burning up from underneath, and he groaned quietly in discomfort. He knew what was happening - he was about to pass out from, most likely, hypotension. He swayed and staggered back, and everything suddenly went black.

Cuddy nodded in relief when he eliminated meningitis from the differential. He could be lying but she doubted even he'd be so reckless as to risk dying just so he wouldn't have to put up with her.

"Water's good but you're going to need more than that. You need to keep up on fluids especially."

House seemed to be ignoring her as she spoke to his back. She didn't care. He could try to ignore her all he wanted. She just do what she needed to be done and put up with his whining when she made he do what he needed to do. And the first thing she needed to do was run down to the grocery store and get him some basic supplies: bread, milk, maybe some sports drinks to keep his electrolytes balanced. And that's exactly what she'd do once she made sure he was tucked up in bed again.

She'd only taken a couple of steps toward him when he began to sway. She knew instantly what was happening and her first thought was to not let him fall and crack his head open on the hard floor. She instinctively grabbed for him but physics inevitably won. He was too big and too heavy and--at that moment--dead weight. She couldn't possibly keep him from falling. In fact, at that moment, she couldn't keep from falling with him.

She did manage to prevent him from cracking his head on the floor. However, her own ass had a rather painful meeting with the floor as she plopped down. She kept her arms around him and his head ended up safely in her lap. But damn, that hurt.

"House?" She extricated herself from under him and grabbed a towel from the towel rack, folding it under his head. She quickly checked his vitals as she talked to him, trying to get him to respond. There was no evidence of a seizure which was a relief. A simple syncopal episode was not a lot of fun but easy enough to manage and definitely not life-threatening.

"House, come on. I know you're in there. Talk to me."

In the few seconds that passed in blackout, it felt to House like an eternity had gone by. Blood rushed to his brain, awakening him again within a matter of seconds, though he was still caught in the midst of post-brownout malaise and wasn't at all with it. He was just aware of a strong sense of nausea, feverishness, and his whole body felt completely limp.

When he finally came around enough to open his eyes and focus a little, he realised he was lying on the bathroom floor. How much time had passed? was the first thought that ran through his head. He'd lost all bearings of time. And then he realised Cuddy was kneeling over him, checking his vitals. He did a hazy mental check of himself: no pain in his head, no pain in his body from where he might've hurt himself during the fall. Maybe Cuddy had caught him, or managed to break his fall before he hit the floor.

He grunted in response to her command and let his eyes slide shut again. Right now, he could stay on the floor for the rest of his life. He didn't think he even had the energy to get up again. However, as his body returned to regular blood flow, he noticed how cold the floor was and that, accompanied with his fever, made him feel even more chilled.

"Cuddy," he murmured in a lethargic tone, then swallowed and licked his dry lips. He rolled himself onto his side and came to a rest again. God, his head... Turning his face in towards the floor, he covered it with his arm to shield out light.

"My head feels like it's split in half," he said from under his arm. Due to his pain problems before the ketamine treatment, House had quite a few pain control methods in his apartment. Things from morphine to NSAIDs. He'd only taken milder analgesics during the night and early in the morning in the belief that he'd be able to sleep off this bug and he'd wake up feeling better. Not so yet, however. He wanted something with a stronger antipyretic to lower his temperature and stronger analgesic to kill his headache, and fast.

"Go to my medical bag," he continued. "Under my bed. You'll find some ampoules of Toradol. Few syringes in there somewhere, too."

"I'm right here. You passed out," Cuddy added in case he was disoriented. Sometimes it took a few moments for the mind--even a mind like his--to put the pieces together after a syncopal episode. She rubbed his uppper arm when he turned to his side and she could feel him shivering. Lying on the cold floor wasn't going to do him any good but there was no way she could get him up and back in bed by herself.

"Okay, give me a minute." She rubbed at her ass as she got to her feet, wincing at what had to be a deep bruise. The first thing she did was go the living room and grab the throw from the lounge chair. And her cell phone. The way he'd taken them both down when he passed out proved she couldn't take care of him alone, not while he was this weak. Just as importantly, she couldn't afford to catch whatever bug this was. If it was just her health at stake, she'd risk it, but not while she was pregnant. Not when there was another solution.

"I'm going to get the Toradol now," she said, draping the thin blanket over him. She headed back into the bedroom, dialing her phone as she knelt down next to the bed. She sneezed again as she pulled House's medical bag and its attendant dust bunnies from under the bed.

"Wilson, I need a favor," she said as soon as Wilson answered. She tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder as she dug through the medical bag.

"Cuddy? Er...sure. What?"

"House is sick. It's probably just a flu bug but I need someone who can handle him."

"If it's just the flu, he probably doesn't need anyone to handle him. Probably doesn't want it either."

"I know, but he's passed out once already. And what if he picked up something while we were traveling? What if it's not a routine bug?"

"You weren't traveling in third world countries."

Cuddy directed a mental glare at Wilson. "I know. Indulge me, okay?" she said as she pulled a syringe from the bag and shoved it aside. "I can't stay here. I don't want to risk catching this thing in case it could be dangerous to the baby."

"Okay, sure. I'll be there in...twenty minutes?"

"Thanks, Wilson." Cuddy hung up and shoved the phone in her pocket. She grabbed the medicine and the syringe and headed back to the bathroom.
She knelt down and pulled the blanket away so she could clean a spot on his upper arm with an alcohol wipe.

"You really shouldn't take this when you're dehydrated," she said as she drew up the dose. "Promise me you'll drink all the fluids I tell you to drink. Or Wilson tells you to drink."

House drew the blanket gratefully over him as Cuddy informed him she was getting the drug. He just nodded, keeping his face hidden by his arm. The syncopal episode had mostly faded, leaving him feeling drained and weak. God, he hated being sick. He hated how everything internally just ached as much as the outside did.

He'd almost slid into a doze during Cuddy's absence, though not enough to miss the fact that she was talking to someone on the phone. He didn't know who because he wasn't listening too hard; he was more interested in blocking sound out of his throbbing head right now rather than listening to anything. But when Cuddy returned to the bathroom and crouched down beside him, he peeked up from under his arm at her.

"You really shouldn't be giving it to me, then," he shot back, though he sounded so lethargic that it was hardly a retort. He frowned at what she said next, though.

"What's Wilson got to do with it?" he asked. He remained peering up at her even as she injected him, and it dawned on him. "You didn't," he retorted. He managed a weak roll of his eyes and closed them again with an exasperated sigh. "I'm not a baby. I don't need to be looked after. I don't need Wilson looking after me. I don't even need you to look after me."

He'd settled back to the position he was in before, arm slung over his face, no intention of getting up from the floor just yet. That required too much energy, which he didn't have. He sighed again. "When's he going to be here?" he asked in an irritable but relenting tone.

"The fact you're sprawled on your bathroom floor would indicate you do need someone to look after you," Cuddy said as she administered the injection. She disposed of the container and needle and then settled beside him. She grimaced slightly; her coccyx was definitely tender after landing on it with all her weight, and his.

"Soon," she said when he asked about Wilson. She reached over to brush his hair back, rubbing her fingers lightly over his temple. "We should probably wait for him before you try to get up. If you pass out again, I won't be able to stop you from going down. One of us will end up getting hurt."

She simply sat at his side, running her fingers soothingly through his hair. She was sure he couldn't be comfortable on the floor like that but she really was concerned about getting him up and having him fall again. Lying on the cold floor might be uncomfortable but it was better than skull fracture.

She was starting to feel the cold from the floor herself, seeping through her jeans. She started to shift position but stopped when she heard a key in the front door.

House didn't argue with Cuddy. He couldn't be bothered for a start. And he didn't have the energy to get up off the floor. So, he just lay quietly, his eyes closed, while Cuddy stroked her fingers through his hair. He'd have slapped her away if it wasn't for the fact that what she was doing felt soothing and relaxing.

Enough so that he napped lightly. He didn't even hear Wilson come through the door, not until he heard a voice just by the bathroom doorway. "That's not a sight you see every day," he heard Wilson say lightly.

House startled slightly out of sleep and craned his neck up to look at Wilson. The angle was awkward and he had to squint hard to peer up at him. God, how humiliating. Why the hell did Cuddy have to phone him and ask him to come over while he was in this state? "It's not what it looks like," House replied.

"Could've fooled me," Wilson said. "How you feeling?"

"How do I look?"

"Like crap."

"Rhetorical question, then," House replied, burying his face back under his arm.

He heard Wilson's footsteps come into the bathroom. By the closeness of his voice when he spoke next, he'd crouched down by House, next to Cuddy. "What about you?" House heard Wilson ask Cuddy. "Suppose now is the wrong time to ask how your trip went."

Wilson wasn't surprised when Cuddy answered his question with a small shake of the head. He figured there were probably a few stories to tell--good and bad--and he also figured he was more likely to get the straight story from each of them individually.

"We need to get him back to bed," Cuddy said.

"Go on," Wilson said, waving her off. "I think we can handle this."

"You sure?" Cuddy stood up, looking uncertain but Wilson gave her a nod. "Okay, well, I'm going to run down the street to the market. House doesn't have any food in the place."

"Good idea," Wilson said, shooing her off. Once the front door closed behind her, he turned to look down at House, shaking his head in exasperation. It wasn't that he wasn't sympathetic. Even when House caused his own misery, Wilson still wanted to help. Sometimes even against his better judgement. Still, there was something almost amusing about the way House stumbled from one crisis to another.

"All right, big guy." Wilson crouched down and, with some prodding, got House into a sitting position. He pulled House's arm around his shoulders and got his own arm around House's back. "You ready?"

House peeked back up from under his arm when Cuddy stood up, and he watched Cuddy and Wilson talk with his eye squinted almost closed. As she headed out of the bathroom, House followed her with his squinted gaze, then closed his eyes again with a protesting grimace - looking towards the light from the hallway caused a stab of pain in his head.

After a moment's rest, though, he chanced a look up at Wilson and saw Wilson was looking down at him, shaking his head. "What?" he demanded defensively, but again without really sounding all that defensive given how lethargic he sounded.

"I can get up on my own, you know," he retorted once Wilson had crouched to his side to help him up. For a few moments, House refused to sit up because he didn't want Wilson's help. He'd rather lie on the cold floor than be helped up. On second thoughts, he thought to himself, maybe not. He was going to be down here on the bathroom floor for a long while if he chose not to accept some help.

He grunted quietly in discomfort as he sat up, the change in position sending a painful rush of blood through his head. He felt like a mess. He felt gritty from the stale sweat of perspiring in his bed, his mouth tasted grimy and fuzzy, he felt hungry despite not feeling interested in eating, he just felt all-round revolting. All because of a single bug he'd caught on the plane. Though, his hangover the day before probably hadn't helped. Not to mention the stress - of everything. Not just his fight with Cuddy, but... everything that had happened since he got shot.

"Ew, boy germs," he complained mildly when Wilson put his arm around House and House's arm around him. That was the most he complained, though. Gritting his teeth in effort, he grabbed onto the material of Wilson's shirt in his fist and tried to get up. Because of his leg and because of how weak he felt, he ended up having to latch his other hand onto the front of Wilson's shirt and gripped on tight as he was hauled up onto his feet. And woozy once he was standing, he kept hold of Wilson for another moment while he swayed, relaxing his grip on him when the worst of the dizziness passed.

"Told you I didn't need your help," he said. He reached an arm out to swipe his cane from where it was still dangling over the door frame, and stiffly righted his balance with it.

"Yes, boy germs are clearly the worst of your worries right now."

Wilson grunted softly as he helped House to his feet. Manhandled might be a more appropriate term although he wasn't sure who was manhandling who. At the moment he was just glad he'd worn an old shirt because it seemed entirely possible that force of House's grip could rip it. He shifted his feet further apart so he could brace himself against House's weight.

"Oh, hey--let's not push it, okay?" Wilson said when House reached for the cane. "One hernia a day is my limit."

House wasn't all that much bigger than Wilson but he was such a lanky son of a bitch that when his legs went wobbly he was a handful. He didn't blame Cuddy at all for calling for help. She was no weakling but House would break her if he fell on her.

Wilson resettled House's left arm around his shoulder and began the laborious trek back to House's bedroom. Even with his cane to help steady him, he was a load. Wilson was sweating almost as heavily as House by the time they reached the bed. He turned so that House could sit back on the bed and had throw his hand down to avoid taking a seat himself.

"Boy, you're a load," Wilson said, running his hand through his hair to neaten it. "And none too fresh smelling."

"Good thing you're such a durable friend," House replied.

House wouldn't ever really admit it, but he knew how much of a strain he could be on Wilson sometimes. He knew he tested Wilson, poked him, prodded him, did things to Wilson that he knew Wilson would usually just accept with a resigned sigh. House knew how much of a hernia he could be.

He didn't really argue when Wilson lifted House's arm back around his shoulders again. He was grateful for the support, even if he didn't actually want the help. He lumbered out of the bathroom, using a lot of weight on Wilson to support himself and feeling every bit as ungainly as he was. He grunted again as he was tipped back onto the bed. The sudden movement jolted his stiff neck and head, which caused another throb of pain to go through both.

"If that's an offer to give me a sponge bath, I think I'll pass," he said, eyeing Wilson warily even though he knew he had no reason to be wary. Wilson had seen House at his worst more than once, and he'd seen House at his most humiliating, too. A sponge bath paled in comparison to some of the things House had been and needed around Wilson. But it was still humiliating and definitely not something he wanted.

He eased back onto the bed so his legs were dangling over the edge, and collapsed with a quiet, tired sigh. He lifted his hands to his face and covered it. "This has all just been..." he began wearily. He couldn't find a word to describe how the last couple of days had been, how horrible his last night in Europe was.

"Ah...no, I think I'll leave the sponge baths to Cuddy," Wilson said with a dry chuckle. He wiped the back of his wrist against his forehead to remove the light sweat that had broken out as he half-hauled House to the bedroom.

He leaned his ass back against the dresser and crossed his arms comfortably over his chest. With House being sick and looking like hell, it was hard for Wilson to get a read on his mood regarding the trip. Cuddy's emails had all been very even in tone and that hadn't told him much. It looked as though House might've gotten a little sun but that didn't really tell him anything either.

"All of this meaning being sick or meaning the trip?" he asked. "And it's all been what?" He shifted his legs a little farther apart as he continued to try and read House's face. "Cuddy's been here fussing over you so I assume things between you are no worse anyway."

House didn't answer Wilson at first. He massaged his palms into his eyes and over his forehead, thinking to himself how good sleep would be right now. Except he was already sick of being in bed, already sick of trying to sleep, and sick to death already of being sick.

"Either," he replied. "Both." Not that there hadn't been good times on the trip. There'd been some great times. But the way it had ended felt like all of those good times were undone and void. House scrubbed his hands over his face, then dropped them to his chest and cracked an eye open to peer at Wilson. Judging from Wilson's lack of reaction to anything regarding the trip, that either meant he knew and he was just being his usual manipulative self to coax House's side of the story out of him, or he really didn't have a clue.

House decided to give Wilson the benefit of the doubt on this one. "That's what you think," House muttered at Wilson's last remark, scooting himself back slowly onto the bed so he could lie down properly. Once his head met the pillow, he relaxed and closed his eyes again. Maybe the injection Cuddy had given him was starting to work because it didn't hurt as much to open his eyes and sound didn't seem to reverberate so forcefully in his head.

"Let's just say this vacation could've ended on a way better note."

"Seriously?" Wilson's eyebrows rose in surprise. Well, maybe not surprise exactly. He knew House too well, and Cuddy well enough, to know that things never went smoothly between them. What he didn't know was whether a 'better note' meant the end of the vacation had been a bit of a bummer or if it meant a fight of apocolyptic proportions. Either was possible.

"How did the vacation end?" Wilson tensed slightly when he heard the sound of the front door opening. "Hold that thought."

He headed down the hall and helped Cuddy carry in a couple of bags of groceries. It didn't take long for the two of them to put away the few staples she'd bought. Strangely House's cupboards almost looked emptier with just a few things sitting in them than they had before.

"How is he?" Cuddy asked as she closed the fridge door.

"In bed resting, just like he should be."

"Maybe I should just check on him...."

"Cuddy, he's fine. Go home. Take care of yourself."

"Okay...I guess. I gave him a shot of Toradol just before you got here so he'll...."

"Cuddy," Wilson exclaimed, an exasperated smile on his face. "I'm a doctor. House is a doctor. I think we can handle it."

"Yeah, but you're also men," Cuddy muttered. She thrust a bottle of sports drink at him. "Make sure he drinks this."

"Cross my heart," Wilson promised as he took the bottle and ushered her toward the door. "Don't worry. He'll be fine. If you need something that really needs to be worried over, read the finance committee minutes."

"But you'll call me if he gets worse." Cuddy resisted Wilson's help and turned just as she was nudged out the front door, a puzzled look on her face. "Wait, what happened at the finance committee meeting?"

"Night, Cuddy," Wilson said cheerfully, closing the door behind her. He waited a moment to make sure she wouldn't come right back through the door, then headed back to the bedroom, still smiling. Whatever Cuddy's faults, she did do her best for both House and the hospital. It had to be quite a challenge because those two things were often in conflict. And Wilson felt no guilt at using one to distract her from the other.

"Drink. Cuddy's orders," he said as he set the bottle on the bedside table. He resumed his place leaning against the dresser. "And you were saying the vacation ended not so well...?"

Saved by the bell, House thought to himself. He merely waved at Wilson in a 'take as long as you like' fashion, not eager to get into the details of how the vacation ended. However, as he moved onto his side and tucked the pillow under his head, he decided he definitely felt a little better from the injection. Even his neck didn't feel as stiff at the moment. Given how nasty he felt, any measure of relief was a welcome one.

He vaguely listened to Wilson and Cuddy talking amongst themselves in the kitchen, heard cupboard doors being closed, and then heard footsteps moving out into the living room. He half hoped Cuddy would come in and see him, and half hoped she'd just leave because he didn't want to deal with any of this relationship stuff right now. When it was just Wilson who walked back through his bedroom door, House felt himself relax a little. He supposed he could handle discussing stuff he didn't want to discus with Wilson more than he could handle it from Cuddy at the moment. At least Wilson was a third party, someone who wasn't going to get emotional on him the way Cuddy did.

House opened his eyes and peered up at Wilson without moving a muscle when Wilson set the drink down on his bedside table. "And since when have I ever listened to Cuddy's orders?" he countered.

Getting himself more comfortable on his side, his arm tucked under the pillow and his other arm tucked up by his chest, he closed his eyes and sighed. Of course Wilson was going to press the issue, annoying bastard that he was.

"Something like that," House replied dismissively.

He wanted to end the conversation right there, but after a few moments he found himself dwelling on their last night in Europe and he opened his eyes and stared vacantly at nothing in particular. Headache was definitely better. Still bad, but much more tolerable. After another sigh, he rolled onto his back to stare up at the ceiling, draping an arm over his forehead.

"We had a big fight," he conceded reluctantly. "Cuddy seems to think that..." He turned his palm in and wiped it over his face. "I don't even know. I got pretty drunk, I know that much."

"And, of course, getting drunk is the number one recommended way of dealing with relationship problems," Wilson said dryly.

He quickly fell into serious thought, though. In his experience, men and women were completely different in the way they dealt with relationships and problems. Men did not do well with deep, emotional issues, and House was particularly bad at it. Most men learned to at least fake it. House couldn't--or wouldn't--even do that.

"Women aren't like us. They need to talk about their thoughts and feelings. They need us to understand them...even if we don't." Wilson looked over at House, sprawled on the bed. He knew he wasn't telling House anything he didn't know but sometimes House didn't want to know and then he needed to be beaten over the head with it.

"Which is a long way of saying you're going to have to talk to Cuddy and find out what she was thinking."

"Like you're the expert on dealing with relationship problems," House shot back.

He just squeezed his eyes shut as Wilson went on to tell House exactly what he already knew. House knew women were different to men - hell, how much he and Cuddy misunderstood each other was a testament to that. He knew women liked to feel listened to, liked to feel understood, liked to have opportunities to talk about their feelings and thoughts.

But House just wasn't good at facilitating that kind of thing. He wasn't even good at pretending to facilitate that kind of thing. He tried. Sometimes he really did try. But he always failed. He always ended up saying the wrong thing, or doing something wrong that ended in Cuddy being hurt or offended or upset.

"Preaching to the choir," he said to Wilson. But then he opened his eyes and turned his head to look at him. "I know what Cuddy's thinking. She thinks she's 'second best'. Second best to what, I don't know."

He closed his eyes again and turned his head away. "Doesn't matter what I say or do..."

"I'm talking from experience, and that includes failed experiences. Be smart and learn from my mistakes."

Wilson knew full well he'd had his own relationship problems. It was kind of hard to miss that fact. Still, in his mind, the fact that he'd had relationships and continued to try to have relationships put him one step ahead of House. Granted, he wasn't doing much relationship-wise at the moment but he would. He was simply taking a short time out. Which gave him plenty of time to ponder House and Cuddy's relationship.

"Second in what capacity?" he asked, puzzled. Sure, he could think of ways Cuddy might feel less than successful. House's blunt honesty didn't help with that. He'd called Cuddy a second-rate doctor plenty of times. That might not be technically a relationship issue but it could certainly bleed over into the relationship. And that was only one possibility.

"Why does she think that?"

"How should I know?" House retorted.

He really didn't know why she thought that, either. He'd puzzled over it in his head on the way home from Europe a few times, trying to work out why the hell Cuddy would think of herself as being second best to him. Sure, he kind of got the fact that she didn't like him looking at other women. But that was hardly ever intentional on his part, and it definitely wasn't any reflection on how he saw her or what he felt for her. But she seemed to think it was. And he didn't even know how that classed her as "second best".

He turned his head back towards Wilson and cracked an eye open to look at him. "Second in the capacity of female packing order," he told Wilson.

He closed his eye again, ran his hand over his face, then shifted up onto his elbows and scooted back a bit until he was half propped up against the headboard. He tugged the covers up higher around his chest and then just relaxed again.

"Apparently, she's second best. To all the other women out there in the world which, while some of them are admittedly extremely hot, I'm not interested in. Sure, I look. What guy doesn't? You know what it's like."

He sighed. "This particular bar we went into, in Madrid. Cuddy got pissy about something I didn't want to discuss then and there, so she went off to the bar by herself. This British chick then took it upon herself to join the table I was sitting at. Tried chatting me up. Followed me to the bar when I went to find Cuddy. I made it clear to both Cuddy and this chick that I wasn't interested in her. Which did nothing. Except make Cuddy pissier. Followed Cuddy out of the bar, ended up in an alleyway, got into a fight with her. Then we went our separate ways.

"Got back to the hotel, drunk. Got into another fight. I said something I shouldn't have, and then Cuddy was packing up her stuff to go to the airport early." He puffed his cheeks out, feeling uncomfortable recounting all of this. "She stayed in the end. But we're not exactly on very good terms right now."

"Oh, please tell me you know you can't look at other women when you're with Cuddy. When she's not there, you can look all you want. Otherwise...."

Wilson rubbed his hand over his face in frustration. It was just like House to do something that violated one of the cardinal rules of dating. Wilson had learned early on that it didn't matter how smart or sexy or beautiful his date was, if he looked at another woman it was as bad as calling his date fat and ugly. It was one of those things you just couldn't do.

What surprised him, though, was that Cuddy would react so strongly. She knew House was a jerk. He could understand if she got annoyed and wanted to smack House upside the head but he wouldn't have thought she'd be that insecure. He'd never seen that side of her certainly.

"There's got to be something more to it," Wilson said thoughtfully, shoving his hands in his jean pockets as he considered the possibilities. Maybe she'd had a bad experience with a previous boyfriend. Or more than one bad experience. He didn't know much about her love life except that, obviously, it hadn't gone well. It wasn't a stretch to imagine she might've had an experience that made her sensitive to the 'threat' of another woman.

"You know, this could be hormonal," Wilson said, giving House a hopeful look. "Pregnant women tend to get pretty emotional and, well, irrational. Maybe Cuddy's hormones just got the best of her."

Wilson liked that idea. It meant that no one was really at fault. It meant there was no real problem other than House needing to take her emotional state into account. Which, actually, could still be a problem given House's usual lack of sensitivity.

"I don't do it deliberately, it just happens!" House argued.

He was adamant about that. Most of the time when he was looking at another woman, he wasn't even really thinking about the fact that he was doing it. It just happened. He liked women. He liked looking at them. He hadn't been in a relationship for a number of years and had bachelor habits. So sue him. He knew it didn't mean anything. Why the hell couldn't Cuddy get that, too?

"I'm in a relationship with her, aren't I?" he continued arguing. "She knows how I feel. Or, well, she's supposed to know. She doesn't need constant reassuring, and I sure as hell am not going to constantly reassure her. Why should I? I have nothing to answer for."

He squeezed his eyes closed, deciding he wasn't really ready just yet to get into full fledged debate over right and wrong when it came to relationships. His head might've felt better, but it still hurt. He still felt sick and drowsy, even if his temperature was easing.

But even as he did that, he noted what Wilson said about maybe there was something more to Cuddy's behaviour. Except what on earth could that be? And just as he was puzzling over what Cuddy's issue might be, Wilson came to the rescue with something House hadn't fully taken into account. Hormonal, yes. Of course. She was pregnant, she was hormonal. He sighed a kind of relief. Yeah, that had to be the reason. He honestly couldn't think of any other reason.

"Possible," House agreed thoughtfully. He liked that reason. It meant that Cuddy was just being irrational and he had nothing to worry about. God, why didn't he think of that? Probably because he'd spent a good deal of time not thinking about the baby. And not thinking about it meant not thinking about obvious factors like hormones.

"Boy," he then said dryly. "That pretty much means I can't do anything right. Hormonal women are to men as customers are to sales clerks - always right, doesn't matter how wrong they are." He lifted a hand back to his face and rubbed it. "Can't I just call this pregnancy off? Part of me really wants a full refund."

"Of course, it's possible. It's even probable."

The more he thought about it, the more he liked that theory. If Cuddy was simply having some pregnancy-induced mood swings then the situation was manageable. It might not be pleasant but it was definitely manageable. House would just need to be gagged for the next six months.

House and Cuddy's relationship problems really weren't Wilson's problem, of course. Strictly speaking it was none of his business. But anything that affected House or Cuddy's moods tended to trickle down to him. Sometimes, especially with House, it gushed. Keeping an eye on the two of them was self-protective. Frankly, he didn't want to get stuck picking up the pieces again.

"Oh, boy--don't say that to Cuddy." Wilson gave House a rather worried look because he could very easily imagine House saying something along to those lines to Cuddy. There was no way that could end well.

"The more you try to ignore the pregnancy, the more likely it is she'll think you're trying to ignore her. The baby's a fact. Time to suck it up and deal." Wilson pointed impatiently at the drink bottle sitting on the bedside table. "And speaking of sucking it up...."

House had said those kinds of things to her... sort of. He was callous and abrasive and inconsiderate a lot of the time, and he knew that. But there were a lot of times he held back. He knew the places to dig at Cuddy when he really wanted to hurt her, and that was why he didn't often do it - because he didn't want to hurt her. He knew saying something like what he'd just told Wilson, to Cuddy, would end disastrously. He knew that. But as it turned out, he didn't even have to be very callous at all about that subject before Cuddy was upset.

"I am trying to suck it up and deal," House shot back. "I've got about six months to suck it up and deal. Got no reason to rush."

He gave Wilson a look at being told to drink. He almost stubbornly refused just on principle of hating to be told what to do. But then he grudgingly swiped the bottle off the stand, unscrewed it, and took a long sip. The whole pregnancy thing left him with such mixed emotions. There were times he thought he'd reached a decision, that he was going to accept what was happening and he almost felt relieved by that. In those frames of mind, Molly always entered his thoughts and he'd remember all over again how poignant talking with her had been. But then self-doubt and anxiety would kick in, along with the other side of his brain that liked to debate everything with him. And he'd then find himself back at defence mode, refusing to acknowledge that the pregnancy was even real.

If anything, he found it frustrating. Because he hated not being able to make a decision. Especially a big decision like this, where his whole relationship with Cuddy was dependent on what choice he made.

He screwed the lid back on after another few smaller sips, and set the bottle onto the nightstand. He settled back against the pillows. "Cuddy was going to leave on our first day in Europe," he admitted after a short pause. "Got there, got into a fight over anti-emetics of all things, and then..." He waved his hand as though to say 'and then she was going to leave, like I said'. He dropped his hand to his belly and fell silent again, staring at the wall opposite him. He was silent for a good while, his headachy head swimming with thoughts. Of Cuddy. And of Stacy.

"It was only a matter of time before Stacy left," he finally said, quietly, and he knew how unexpected it was to say that. But this was where his thought process had led him. "I saw it coming. Did nothing to stop it."

He paused again, an awkward silence. He rarely talked about Stacy. Rarely. It was too painful a thing to talk about. The truth was, however, that being in this relationship with Cuddy had stirred some of that back up in him. He'd found himself thinking about his past with Stacy a lot more than he'd allowed himself before he and Cuddy ever got together. Because being with Cuddy made his memories of Stacy unavoidable. Cuddy herself didn't remind him of Stacy. But being in love with Cuddy did. How could it not? Cuddy was the first woman since Stacy to mean this much to him.

He drew in a breath to say more. Maybe it's only a matter of time before Cuddy leaves me, too, he wanted to say. Except he couldn't bring himself to say it because saying it out loud would just be confirming his biggest fear. So, he just swallowed and let his breath back out again.

"Suck it up and deal means making a decision, not procrastinating for six months. The longer this is hanging over you, the harder it's going to be for both of you."

Wilson watched House finally drink, shaking his head. He certainly knew how stubborn and self-destructive House could be but he still couldn't understand why his friend would sabotage himself this way. Because that's exactly what he was doing. House seemed to be gearing up to do his best to drive Cuddy away. Not consciously, perhaps, but he was poking at Cuddy's insecurities and sooner or later she was liable to stop taking it. And then House would naturally take that as proof that he was right to avoid relationships.

It was almost as if House had read his mind because his next comment was about Stacy--the last relationship House had torn apart even though it had caused him as much pain as it had hurt Stacy.

"You not only didn't stop it--you pushed Stacy to leave," Wilson said bluntly. He threw his hands up in frustration. "Don't do it again. Pushing Stacy away didn't prove she didn't love you enough. Pushing Cuddy away won't prove she doesn't love you enough. The only thing it proves is that you are the single most annoying person on the planet...aside from Tom Cruise."

Wilson dropped his hands; he knew it was fruitless to offer advice. House only heard what he wanted to hear no matter what Wilson said. House would do what he wanted to do no matter what Wilson said. All Wilson could do was stand to the side and spout platitudes like some second-rate Greek chorus.

"You don't have to be alone. But you will be if that's what you choose to do."

Well, of course Wilson was going to have an opinion about Stacy. Wilson had an opinion about everything. House opened his mouth to argue, but then looked away with an indignant sigh because... Wilson was right. About pushing Stacy away, that was. Damn him. He wasn't going to tell Wilson that, though. And he knew arguing more would only make Wilson even more opinionated.

He remained staring away from Wilson even after he finished talking. Of course he didn't want to choose to be alone. Well... admittedly, he sometimes thought it would be easier to be alone. Being alone meant not having to worry about if he was doing things right in a relationship. But he didn't want to be alone, and he definitely didn't want to lose Cuddy. But the side of him that was always on guard against getting hurt couldn't help automatically expecting that he would in the end.

"Gee, to be alone or not be alone. Funny how choice works like that," he replied dryly. But even as he said that, he looked awkward at his own abrasiveness. He didn't really mean what he said in the context of his relationship with Cuddy. He just... didn't know how to talk about this without getting defensive or prickly.

"Yeah, funny," Wilson echoed in a sarcastic tone. "Funny that you actually do have a choice but chances are you won't make one. Or rather, you'll choose by not choosing because you'd rather stick with the misery you know than take a chance on being happy."

Wilson gave a little shake of his head. He looked to the side and reached to poke through the junk that had collected on House's dresser. He didn't know if House and Cuddy were right for each other. He didn't know if House could ever unknot himself enough to be a father. But relationships, family--those were the things that gave meaning to people's lives. That's what made people happy. At least it was supposed to and Wilson simply wanted House to be happy.

He sometimes wondered what House was more frightened of--finding out that no one could love him. Or finding out that he couldn't love someone else. Wilson knew the first wasn't true. Stacy had loved House. He believed Cuddy did, too. Hell, he loved House, as a friend, and that meant something. He suspected House knew it, too, but he didn't trust it. And as for loving someone else...his child, well, he'd never know what he could do if he didn't try.

"Don't fuck this up, okay?" Wilson poked a tattered old paperback that was leaning on a couple of CDs, then turned briskly to face House. "I'm hungry. You hungry?"

"Bit hard to be happy when you're pretty sure you don't make the other person happy," he bit back.

He shot Wilson a dark look. It wasn't as simple as choosing to just be happy, not in House's mind. For a start, he wasn't sure he even knew what happiness was. He had moments of feeling happy, moments of feeling optimistic. But those moments never lasted. Is that what happiness was? Having brief interludes of feeling good?

But more than that, Cuddy didn't seem to trust him. Cuddy seemed to think that he saw her as something second rate, something he didn't love and respect anywhere near as much as he actually did. And he had no idea how to prove that to her. No amount of saying so would convince her, and he wasn't about to spend his time convincing her, anyway. She was as constantly on the look out for proof that they were going to fail like he was, it seemed to him. How could he possibly find just be happy when Cuddy didn't even have faith in him?

"I like how this is all my fault," he shot back when Wilson told him not to fuck this up. "Yeah, because Cuddy's the victim here. No point giving a crap about the fact that she seems just as determined to fuck this up as you say I am."

He stared darkly at Wilson for another few seconds after Wilson asked if he was hungry, then looked away. "Whatever," he replied unhelpfully.

"I'm not saying this is all your fault. But I know how you are."

Wilson didn't care if House got angry at him. He didn't have anything at stake in House and Cuddy's relationship so let House whine and bitch. Better at Wilson than at Cuddy because if she was doing the whole out of control hormonal/emotional thing, this was exactly the kind of thing that would set her off. Which would then set House off and it would become a hurricane of unhappiness feeding on itself.

"I don't believe Cuddy would stick around if you couldn't make her happy. She has always found something in you worth believing in--god knows why-- and I don't believe for a minute that's changed." He turned to go the kitchen but, typically, couldn't let it go at that.

"If you think she's messing up, if she'd doing something that bothers you, then--and this is just a crazy idea--try talking to her about it."

Wilson made his way to the kitchen then. He actually was little hungry even if House wasn't. He figured he'd better try to get House to eat, though, or Cuddy was liable to aim her hormones in Wilson's direction. That was trouble he didn't need.

After a moment he decided on cereal. He grabbed a couple of bowls, spoons, the box of cereal and a carton of milk. He got them balanced in his arms and walked back to the bedroom.

"Breakfast in bed," he announced as he dumped everything on the foot of the bed. He filled his own bowl and sat on the side of the bed, leaving House to decide if he wanted to eat or not.

"So," he said, using the spoon to catch a drop of milk on his lip. "Did you have any fun on this vacation?"

"You wound me," House retorted when Wilson remarked that Cuddy saw something in House worth believing and god only knew why. "Good thing it's not you I'm with."

There'd been plenty of times where House almost felt, well, weirdly in a relationship more than friendship with Wilson. Because of the way Wilson nagged him, because of the way they were around each other, because of the way Wilson carried on and how House responded to that. There was a level of trust and unspoken but mutual understanding between them that superceded mere friendship. House couldn't really explain it or even define it. He wasn't sure he wanted to. There was some things between Wilson and himself that were best left unspoken.

"You think I haven't tried?" he shot back.

Well... okay, maybe that was a lie. He hadn't really tried. He'd just avoided in hopes Cuddy would just get it and not require explanation. The only discussing he ever did with her about their relationship usually tended to be in the midst of a big blow up, something where hurtful things were said. So, no. Maybe he hadn't really tried. He didn't like having those conversations, though, because they were hard, they were uncomfortable, and House always ended up saying the wrong thing somehow.

He closed his eyes and shifted down on the bed, his face covered with his hands. He definitely didn't feel as shit now. But he was groggy enough to need a nap soon, simply because he'd had such an unrestful couple of days. He only opened his eyes again when he heard Wilson return to the room.

"You mean dinner," he corrected him. He frowned in protest. "How is cereal 'dinner'? You're supposed to be making me something. Or ordering me something. Like you always do."

But even as he said that, House sat up and reached for a bowl and the cereal once Wilson had filled up his own bowl. He scooted back so he was resting against the headboard, bowl on his lap, and he poured the cereal into it. Once he set the box on the nightstand, he took the milk and applied a liberal amount and set that aside, too.

"Would you have had fun if you'd gone vacationing with Cuddy?" he countered. He motioned for the spoon by Wilson which House had forgotten to retrieve, then picked it up when it was tossed to him. He dipped his spoon into the cereal and sifted it about in the milk. He liked his cereal soggy, not crunchy.

"We stayed for the full three and a bit weeks," he continued. "Without murdering each other, even though we came close a few times. Something in that must give away to you that some fun actually did happen. I don't stick around non-fun people."

He continued to sift the cereal about in the milk, looking down at it all the while. "We went to Paris, Geneva, Venice. Down to Greece and across to Spain. We drove most of the way. Trained it a couple of times. Got into an argument on almost every method of transportation. Didn't have sex on any method of transportation, though. Sadly. That would've been fun."

"It's cereal, therefore it's breakfast," Wilson said amiably. Then he looked askance at House when he complained about the lack of a real dinnner. "So sorry. I didn't know I was supposed to be your personal manservant tonight."

Wilson returned to eating his cereal, not really bothered by House's whining. Yes, House could get demanding but most of the time Wilson didn't mind obliging his friend's need to be taken care of. In fact, he actually liked taking care of House. He didn't know if it was because House so clearly needed someone to care for him or if it was because Wilson simply enjoyed being a caretaker but it didn't really matter. They had a weird kind of friendship but it worked for them. Wilson rarely questioned it.

Of course now Cuddy was part of that equation. She always had been to some extent. She'd filled in the gaps when Wilson simply couldn't cope with House anymore and heaven knew the two of them had collaberated on more than one occasion to prevent House from self-destructing. It was different now. Cuddy would have a much bigger role in House's life...and Wilson was pretty much okay with that. If it made House happy, Wilson would be happy.

"Joining the mile high club isn't all it's cracked up to be. And the drawback to sex in a car is that pesky crashing problem. But sex on a train would be cool," he said, nodding his head. It sounded cool at least. It definitely sounded like something House would do. Cuddy had never struck him as the train-sex type though. She always seemed a little too uptight.

"I suppose Cuddy wasn't big on the idea of sex on a train. Or anywhere else public," he said. "But you must've done more on the trip than just look for new places to have sex."

House settled the bowl of cereal against his chest, too lazy to hold it out in front of him. He caught a dribble of milk down his chin with his spoon after taking another mouthful. "The idea of sex in public, sure," he replied around his food, thinking back to the time they'd skinny dipped. But even though she'd gone along with it, she'd also been extremely apprehensive, too, even under the influence of alcohol. "The practice of sex in public, on the other hand, not so much."

He swallowed and scooped up another spoonful. "No, it was just a three week long endeavour to find all the most interesting and exciting places to have sex." He rolled his eyes. "Of course we did more on the trip than that. In fact, we even did more on the trip than have sex, period."

After eating his spoonful of cereal, he stuck the spoon back into the bowl while he chewed and then swallowed. "Cuddy's never been to Europe, so we did a lot of sightseeing. She did a lot of shopping. She was in her element for a lot of the trip."

There were a number of times she was far from in her element, too. And the same applied to him. He didn't want to mention to Wilson the times he had a meltdown over a stupid nightmare. He reached across to the nightstand for his drink. "We went to the beach in Corfu," he continued, leaving the part about Molly out of it. "Saw all the Athenian sites, caught ferries around the small Greek islands. Took Cuddy to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Taught her how to use chopsticks in a Japanese restaurant in Paris. We did the whole gondola thing in Venice. We went to a Flamenco club in Madrid - and somehow, I ended up on stage, playing bulerias. Still not really sure how that happened."

He sipped his drink and set it aside again. "That was the fun part of our last night in Europe. Before it all went downhill. And fast."

Wilson nodded along to House's recitation of their trip itenarary as he worked steadily at his cereal. He hated soggy cereal. He liked it crispy and crunchy and that meant he couldn't dilly dally while eating, not even for House's vacation memories. One item did catch his attention, though.

"Oh, please tell me Cuddy got some proof of that," he said, referring to House being on stage. "Pictures, an audio recording, something."

He knew House was an excellent musician but typically he only played in the safety of his own apartment. He had a difficult time imagining House voluntarily putting himself in front of a crowd. With medicine, yes, House loved playing to the ignorant masses. But not music. House kept that to himself, and occasionally a few lucky close friends.

"How many beers did it take to work up your nerve for that?" he asked, using his spoon to chase the last flakes of cereal around the bowl. Once he'd cleaned the bowl of all but a few drops of cereal-colored milk, he got to his feet and set the bowl on the dresser.

He turned back to look at House, propped up against headboard as he played with his cereal. House still looked like he'd been through the wringer but not nearly as bad as he had when Wilson first arrived. He had a little more color in his face and he wasn't squinting at the light so much. Wilson figured House would probably survive.

"I'm sorry the trip didn't end on a more positive note but the two of you have never known how to woo peaceably," he said, crossing his arms comfortably over his chest. "With Cuddy's rampaging hormones added in, you probably have to expect some ups and downs. Really big ups and downs even. You're both smart people; you'll figure it out."

He hoped they'd figure it out anyway. They were both smart, but not necessarily at relationships. It was going to be a steep learning curve.

"Knowing her, probably," House replied a little sourly. He couldn't recall Cuddy taking any photos of him up on stage. But he hadn't exactly been paying much attention to anybody or anything except the music. She'd had her camera on her, though, so she probably did snap a picture or two. House just hoped those photos would never see the light of day, if that was the case. He hoped none of the photos taken on their vacation would see the light of day beyond Cuddy.

He shrugged at Wilson's next question. "Couple of whiskeys, couple of beers. Cuddy was the one who suggested I go up there. I'd already had a couple of drinks before we went into the bar, too."

Yeah, he'd gotten pretty drunk that night, he recalled to himself. All the drinks he'd already consumed before their fight added hugely to the drinks he piled on top of that after he'd parted ways with Cuddy. And even being blind drunk hadn't been enough to block out the awful time he'd ended up having.

He shovelled a few more mouthfuls of cereal into his mouth as Wilson stood up and set his bowl aside. He looked up at him, chewing while Wilson talked. Hormones had to be the cause for Cuddy's irrationality. He was glad Wilson had pointed that out to him, because he'd been getting pretty damn lost as to what the hell was going on. Still, dealing with Cuddy's irrationality was fast wearing on his nerves. He'd never had to deal with a pregnant woman beyond treating them in clinic occasionally. He'd definitely never had to deal with them intimately. He wondered how much worse Cuddy was going to get before she got any better or more tolerable. God. He really hoped this was as worse as she got because he didn't think he'd be able to tolerate six more months of her irrational pregnancy-induced insanity.

"Maybe," he replied dismissively. Maybe they'd figure it out. He hoped he and Cuddy would. But with the way things felt right now, House wasn't sure. Hormones or not, he really didn't like Cuddy accusing him of thinking she was second best. He ate the last mouthful of cereal, then slurped back to the milk dregs at the bottom of the bowl. He set the bowl aside once he was done.

Wilson was definitely going to have to follow up with Cuddy on the pictures. He was oddly cheered by the thought that pictures existed of House being...human. Enjoying himself. And not just because those pictures would make great blackmail material. Sometimes it helped to be reminded that House wasn't always completely and utterly miserable.

Right now, though, he was pulling his usual doom and gloom act and focusing on the negatives. Wilson could attribute some of that to the fact House was sick and that tended to dampen anyone's mood. But it was mostly just House being House.

"You're just the Little Engine that Couldn't, aren't you?" Wilson said in response to House's 'enthusiastic' maybe. "Try obsessing over something positive for once. You might find it a surprisingly pleasant change of pace."

Wilson took House's bowl and set it on top of his before gathering up the box and milk carton and taking them back to the kitchen. He rinsed out the bowls but left them lying in the sink. He'd done more than his fair share of dish washing during the short time he'd lived with House. Someone else could take care of these few items.

After storing the cereal in the cupboard and the milk in the fridge, he wandered back down the hall to House's bedroom. He leaned against the door frame and gave House an assessing look. "So are you going to be okay now or do I actually need to babysit you all night?"

"Easy for you to say," House shot back. "You're not the one who unintentionally knocked up a woman who thinks you don't love her."

Focus on something positive, my ass, he thought to himself. What the hell was there positive to think about right now? Wilson hadn't been the one who'd had to endure argument after argument with Cuddy, feeling like his heart was being ripped out every time the arguments escalated to catastrophic heights.

He followed Wilson out with his eyes, his equivalent of a death stare until Wilson was out of sight. Then he relaxed back against the pillows with a tired, frustrated sigh. Better though he felt because of the injection Cuddy had given him, he was more than ready to nap again. Maybe by the time he woke up he'd feel like his usual self again if he just slept it off a little more. Just as he was thinking that, Wilson returned to his room.

House looked at him. "You gave me cereal for dinner. I hardly call that good babysitting," he retorted. He waved his hand in a manner of dismissing him. "I'm fine. Going to sleep some more. Get lost."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Sunday, 6th Nov, late afternoon

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