Title: Bearable
Author: Ellie
Rating: PG13
Summary: "Not since before the Ketamine had it been this
intense."

****

When he’d woken that morning, frost still glittered on the grass
and a deep ache radiated from his thigh. The frost had burnt off
with the bright autumn sun, but the ache had only intensified as
the cold wind chased his motorcycle down the expressway,
blowing flocks of coppery leaves across his path.

Vicodin hadn’t been able to banish the pain in the morning, and
pills popped through the workday did little to distract him from
the intensifying pain. Looking up from his Gameboy, he could
see clouds gathering outside the Clinic window, angry slate
blocking the sun and dulling the fall colors. It suited it mood
much better.

As he’d driven home, the rain began, falling in a slow, steady
drizzle that still left him damp, cold and aching when he arrived,
chilled in a way that cranking up the heat couldn’t touch.
Doubling up the Vicodin couldn’t touch it, either.

The deep ache had mutated and spread, now a searing burn
licking outward from nerve endings down the length of his thigh.
Even shifting his weight enough to remove his jacket caused him
to gasp in pain. Not since before the Ketamine had it been this
intense.

Wet leaves and rain blew against his windows as he heaved
himself down onto the couch, surfing quickly through the
channels, hoping for a distraction, and finding not one option
among the four hundred choices remotely interesting. Eventually
he settled for old boxing on ESPN Classic, and took a moment
of satisfaction in watching two otherwise healthy men inflict
injury upon one another.

The moment passed, and he rose unsteadily in search of
something to dull his pain back to the morning’s deep ache.
There wasn’t enough liquor in his kitchen, not enough Vicodin
in his apartment. His morphine was gone, optimistically
disposed of in the aftermath of his shooting and recovery.
Fucking optimism. He should have known better.

Grabbing a bottle of beer, he headed back to the couch and,
wedged beneath a cushion, found his phone. Without preamble,
he said, "I need you to bring me something." The cold tang of
the beer did nothing to settle his flaming nerves, but her dulcet
tones offered some hope of reprieve, and it was enough.

An hour later, he was through half the pack of beer, which had
only seemed to chill him further, intensifying the burning
synapses. Yet when the knock sounded at his door, he felt a
small measure of relief. "It’s open."

Cuddy came in with a blast of cold air, cheeks flushed pink from
the cold and a crimson oak leaf caught in her wild curls, clashing
with the fluffy purple scarf wrapped around her neck. When she
leaned down over him on the sofa, the fringe of the scarf brushed
his neck, whisper soft. He wondered if she could find a blanket
of it to wrap him up inside until spring.

"How’re you doing?" Her hand rested on his grizzled cheek,
fingers brushing against the hair at his temple, trying to soothe.

"The cold’s never bothered it like this before." He shook his
head in futility, shaking free of her hand.

"There may have been some regeneration while you were using
it. Enough to cause increased sensation, now." The words
could have sounded positive, optimistic even, if her tone hadn’t
been so heartbreaking.

"My nervous system’s making that incredibly clear, doctor, but
thank you for the tutorial." His head fell back against the couch,
staring up at the ceiling and avoiding her assessing gaze. "Did
you bring the morphine?"

She sighed and sat down hard on the coffee table. "Yes. But
only half a CC."

His eyes snapped open and his glare met her icy calm gaze.
"What?"

"Half a CC, IM. That’s it." She shook her head vehemently as
he started to protest. "No, House, this is it, and I shouldn’t even
be doing this. Either you accept what I’m giving, or I’m walking
right back out the door."

He watched her wrap her coat tightly around herself, shifting
slightly towards the edge of the table, ready to rise. Blindly he
reached across the space between them, hand clutching for her
and finding her knee, cold through a sheer layer of nylon.
"Please."

Rarely did he utter the word, and never did he mean it so much as
he did now. The need was so raw, so overwhelming with relief
so close. Through the haze, he saw her lips set into a firm,
puckered line, her brow furrowing almost invisibly, and knew she
understood as much as anyone could.

Cuddy rose, shrugging off her jacket and untangling her scarf,
tossing them over one of the chairs as she spoke. "Do you want
to stay on the couch?"

"I’m not moving," he said, wishing she’d just give him the
damn shot.

"Give me a minute," she said, frustrating him further as she
disappeared into the bedroom with her bag. In her absence, he
couldn’t even take matters into his own hands. Of course, that
was precisely why she’d taken it with her, and for a moment his
fuming displaced a bit of the pain.

Returning, she tossed a pair of his pajama pants and the foot of
the couch. He looked up, taking in her sweats and Michigan
sweatshirt, hair in a loose ponytail. "Now that you’ve dressed
down, can you give me the damn shot, before I gnaw my own leg
off?"

"You are as grumpy as a bear in a trap; I wouldn’t put it past
you," she said, settling down beside him and depositing an
alcohol wipe, a tiny bottle of morphine, and a sealed syringe on
the table. "Take off your dress shirt."

"Now I see your nefarious scheme. You’re just here for my
body, not my well-being." He grimaced as he twisted to remove
the shirt, catching her eye for just a moment before she looked
away to rip open the alcohol wipe.

It was cold against his arm, and she didn’t linger with it. With
appreciation, he watched her businesslike manner in handling the
painkiller, deftly drawing up the injection and delivering it to his
exposed bicep. He sighed as she slipped the used needle back
into the opened packaging.

"You want to change into those while you still can?" She
nodded to the pajama pants, still matter-of-fact.

For a moment he was quiet, weighing his response and waiting
for the morphine to kiss the edge of his senses. Very softly, he
finally answered, "You’ll have to help me." He hated himself
for saying it, for needing her help at all. It would be better if
there were no one here, no one to witness him brought low,
aching and huddled on his sofa. Part of him hated her for being
here.

She didn’t answer him, just quietly helped, all business. Only in
her touch was there a hint of tenderness, fingers lingering just a
heartbeat too long against his skin in a caress rather than a
professional gesture. "Do you need anything else?" Her tone
matched her touch, far softer than it had been.

The morphine was beginning to take effect, loosening his tongue.
"Sit with me."

Pausing to gather the remote, she did, settling so his head rested
in her lap. As he drifted, he heard the TV flick on, inane home
improvement show banter filling the room. Her hands brushed
through his hair, one slipping down to his neck. A finger
brushed lightly against the scar on his neck in a slow rhythm
until he couldn’t absorb another sensation.

He didn’t sleep for long, even with the morphine’s assistance.
Grimacing, his consciousness focused on the pain in his thigh,
somewhat lessened, but still insistent. Slowly, he became aware
of the world beyond his leg. There was only one light on in the
room, and a crumb-covered plate sitting on the table next to his
bottle of Vicodin. Cuddy was no longer his warm pillow, but
was curled up in front of him, her hand resting on top of his
against her stomach.

With less finesse than usual, he slid his hand up and groped her,
delighting in feeling her startle awake, then relax back against
him.

"Feeling better?"

He shook his head, lips brushing the nape of her neck. "No."

She pulled away and sat up, staring down at him as her fingers
brushed his cheek. "It didn’t help at all?"

Closing his eyes, he shrugged and tried to focus on her touch.
"Barely. You should go to bed. I’ll just keep you up."

"Tomorrow’s Saturday, I don’t have to be in at any set time."
Her hand left his cheek, slid down his arm to twine her fingers
with his. "What…?"

With a shake of his head, he replied, "You’ve done everything
you can." He’d already allowed her to witness more than
almost anyone else, except Stacy in those first horrible days after
he’d come home years ago. Yet Cuddy just sat staring down like
a cat, wise and inscrutable and self-possessed. It unnerved him
more than he’d like to admit, and part of him wished she’d just
leave him to his misery the way Stacy had.

"If it’s that bad, maybe we should go in—"

"Absolutely not. It’ll ease up a little, eventually."

"Eventually, like sometime next week, or next month, or maybe
with the spring thaw? You can’t live like this, and I can’t bring
opiates home for you." Before his eyes, Cuddy seemed to grow
a few inches, sitting ramrod straight with fire in her eyes.

Drawing a deep breath, he asked, "Is it too late to try the
booster?"

She shook her head, lips pursing. "I don’t know. I’ll do some
reading on it tomorrow."

Mustering himself, he sat up, wrapping an arm around her in the
process. "What time is it?"

Cuddy wore a watch obsessively, and glanced down at his query.
"Almost one."

"Go sleep." House gave her shoulder a little push, hand
caressing her shoulder blade even as he urged her away.

"First thing tomorrow," she said, turning to look down at him,
"I’ll look into it. It might be enough to make things more
bearable, at least."

He couldn’t answer her. What answer did he have to hoping for
the bearable? It wasn’t untrue, which made it worse. It wasn’t
hard to remember a time when he looked forward to so much
more. Not that he now wanted less, but he knew better than to
hope for more.

Cuddy was very careful never to ask him what he wanted, and he
usually appreciated that. But now, watching her shuffle sleepily
away, he wondered why she never did. Was she afraid of her
own hopes, or the painful simplicity of his desires?

He had a long night to ponder the unanswerable.

****
End
****