Title: Blue
Author: Ellie
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: No Reason
Summary: Post No Reason, the results of the ketamine treatment
Notes: Inspired by Kieslowski’s “Trois Couleurs” trilogy, which was in turn inspired by the symbolism of the French flag. The first of three. This piece could also read as a continuation of my story “Slowly” if one so chose, though it stands on its own.

****

She stood staring down at his bedside, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of his bandaged chest, and sparing enough glances at the monitors to appear she was monitoring his condition rather than him.

This was more frightening than the last time she’d stood here. Then, she’d known what to expect when he woke: anger, resentment, blame, words that truly cut rather than the standard sarcasm. This time, she had no idea what to expect; the treatment was still too experimental, too risky. If they hadn’t already discussed it, that day after she found him asleep in a haze of morphine and pain, she never would have considered his whispered command to his staff.

If this went well, it would eliminate his pain. But it was not merely the leg that pained him, and the alleviation of pain would not restore utility. That loss had hurt him in a way that opiates couldn’t fix.

She remembered jogging, so many years ago, around the campus at Michigan, and being overtaken by the lanky young man with the piercing eyes she’d seen stalking about the hospital, wearing a rumpled lab coat. He’d slowed, taunted her pace and shorter legs, but continued to run with her, that day and later, on cold snowy mornings when she quickened her pace enough to make him smile and keep her warm, and sunny days at exam time, when she chanted study questions under her breath and he muttered occasional corrections.

It felt like another lifetime, the easy camaraderie of youth and the sunrise miles. But perhaps this would let him walk without pain. Maybe he could get a dog, take it for walks. She tried to imagine him with something small and fluffy and snarly, a Maltese or a Shih Tzu, but knew if he ever had a dog, it would be something ugly and tenacious and sweet, a bulldog or a mastiff. She knew that sort of commitment wasn’t his style.

But it was his style to suddenly find him staring at her, awake and reasonably clear-eyed. She wanted to run her hand through his hair, touch his cheek, as she had during those long quiet nights while he’d been in a coma and the hospital had been nearly empty. Instead, she settled for resting her hand on top of his.

“Welcome back,” she said, her voice catching just a bit.

He nodded, then took a breath and grimaced. “What’s the damage?”

“You’ve at least got the sense to piss off a man who was a terrible shot. Pneumothorax from a shot that also broke a rib. The shot to your neck just went through some muscle.”

“Not that bit of sternomastoid you like so much?” he mumbled hoarsely, sarcasm thrown off by pain and several days of coma.

She frowned, but there was warmth in her voice as she said, “You know how angry I get when other people break my things.”

This time his nod was less emphatic than before, and accompanied by a faint smile.

“Right now,” she continued, back in doctor mode, “you’re still on painkillers for your other injuries. As those heal and we can start weaning you off and see how your leg is feeling. For now, I doubt you’d notice it much anyway. I believe you have some experience with that phenomenon.”

His lips curled into the faintest frown. “Just a little. And for the record, I’m feeling no pain. Unless I do this.” He pulled a face, tensing the muscles on his neck and aggravating the wound.”

“Stop that, House!” Gently swatting his bicep with the back of her hand, she frowned.

“Ow! Now I’m feeling pain! Nurse,” he cried exaggeratedly, “my doctor’s assaulting me!”

Cuddy just rolled her eyes and gave in to the impulse to pat his cheek. “Get some rest.”

“I’ve been in a coma for a week! Get me the remote!” he protested.

She sighed and shook her head, but as she walked out the door, she tossed him the remote. When she heard the snap of him catching it, she smiled.

***

House grumbled as he sat in the passenger seat, tugging at the edge of the bandages on his neck, then tapping his fingers on the dashboard. “I could have taken myself home. I could have been at home hours ago.”

“No you couldn’t,” she said, turning onto his street.

He frowned, but said nothing else. She watched as one of his hands came to rest on his right thigh, thoughtlessly keeping time with the Stones coming from the radio.

When they stopped in front of his building, she took her time getting out and let him do for himself. He’d claimed to be feeling fine after the shooting and the treatment, and she’d been watching him closely for any signs that he was lying. As he swung his legs out of the car and stood, she saw no evidence he felt anything but exhaustion and nerves.

It had been years since he walked unaided, and his leg, while no longer paining him, had lost too much muscle to ever let him walk without a limp. She stepped close to his side, as they made their way up the walk, there if he needed to steady himself, but aside from the brush of his hand across her backside as they stepped through the door, he kept to his own space.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” he growled, tossing his keys to the side as he entered his apartment.

“Maybe I just want to take care of you. Would that be so bad?” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

“People have been taking care of me for weeks. I’m sick of it.” He limped emphatically down the hall to the kitchen. She wandered into the living room, absently tidying piles of books and sheet music, discarding her suit jacket over a chair piled with mail as she listened to him open then slam the fridge door, then the cabinets. Finally he wandered in with a can of Diet Coke and collapsed onto the couch.

She waited a long moment, but he simply closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the couch. “If you’re sure you’ll be fine, I’ll go.” Only when she started to walk away did his hand dart out, quick as a snake, and catch hers.

“Don’t. Just stop with the doctor bullshit. We’re not in the hospital anymore. Sit down and enjoy me not needing Vicodin to exist.”

He tugged at her hand and she let him pull her down onto the couch. Slipping off her heels, she tucked her feet up on the couch and rested her head on his shoulder, careful to avoid his healing rib. “I’m glad to see that your recent medical trauma hasn’t had an affect on your sunny disposition.”

With a snicker, he gently jabbed her with an elbow and offered her a sip of the soda. “Thank you.”

Cuddy almost didn’t hear his hoarse whisper, and nearly choked on the soda when she did. She lifted her head from his shoulder and stared at him. “Who are you want what have you done with Greg House?”

“I know you didn’t want to do the ketamine treatment. You made it perfectly clear when we discussed it that you wouldn’t risk it while I was otherwise healthy. But when the opportunity presented itself, you did it.”

The sarcastic response, telling him he was only thanking her for letting him get his way, died on her lips. He wasn’t someone who said thank you lightly. Instead, she kissed his rougher-than-normal cheek. “You were going to be in a coma anyway. And I did like the idea of my own coma patient to use as a snack tray for a while.”

“You’ve been talking to Wilson, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m also not oblivious to what goes on in my own hospital. You do make a good cupholder.” She took the Coke from him, drinking deeply.

“It’s good to know that even unconscious I’m a valuable asset.”

“I thought about using you for target practice, but figured you already had enough holes in you.”

“You should have gotten your shots in while you could. Now I may actually be able to outmaneuver you.”

They were both quiet for a moment, before she broke the silence. “When you brought up the treatment, we discussed the fact that it would only alleviate the pain, not fix the muscle damage. I’m glad that seems to be working, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up too high…” she trailed off, confused at feeling the need to lecture House about being overly optimistic.

He sighed and dropped his chin to his chest, straining his neck muscles and causing him to look up with a grimace. “I know. But with decreased pain, I’ll be able to do more PT, potentially regain a bit more mobility. Just what I’ve done this week has helped.”

She smiled, oddly pleased with this cautiously optimistic House. “I’m glad. Given a choice, you’d have thrown the cane away for good and be running around unassisted last week, and I understand that. But just take it slow, all right?”

“All right, why don’t we slowly make our way to the bedroom…” he leered, hand running down her back to cup her ass.

“How about the kitchen instead?”

“I like the way you think!”

“No, sorry to disappoint. First of all, you’re still recovering from being shot, so no physical exertion for a while. Secondly, I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch and you’ve got to have at least something edible hiding in there.”

“Does my new freedom from pain mean I’m no longer going to be able to guilt you into cooking for me?”

“I’ve cooked for you twice, and all either of those involved were boiling water and use of the microwave.”

“Such a tragic lack of frying or grilling skills! Why don’t you go find plates and I’ll go find takeout menus?”

Cuddy smiled and rose from the couch, looking back over her shoulder to watch with some satisfaction as he stood and began rummaging through the piles of paper she’d just straightened. There was a smile on his face as, with obvious determination, he moved freely about the room, gathering menus and the telephone.

****
End
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