Title: Red
Author: Ellie
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: No Reason
Summary: Post No Reason, the fallout from the ketamine
treatment
Notes: Inspired by Kieslowski’s "Trois Couleurs" trilogy,
which was in turn inspired by the symbolism of the French flag.
The third of three, following "Blue" and "White".

****

His day kept him busy, as his team struggled with a tough case,
but not so busy that he’d been unaware of her situation. Just
because he’d remained in his office, keeping tabs through the
grapevine and a bit of hacking, didn’t mean he wasn’t following
the progress carefully.

The last relevant entry into the computer system had been at
16:23:07, and had left him staring at his monitor with a look that
kept Chase cowering by the conference room door for a good
five minutes before interrupting him to update him on their
patient.

Now it was late, far later than he normally stayed at the hospital,
but no one would dare to ask him about his continued presence.
A lack of computer file update and a lack of lights in her office
convinced him the long hours filled with paperwork and Mario
Kart were well spent.

The lights were dimmed and the room was eerily silent when he
slid the door open. She sat with her back to the door, and didn’t
turn as he lumbered in. The squeak as he pulled a chair up next
to hers echoed in the silence.

He took her hand in his, felt relief that he’d done the right thing
when her chilled fingers tightened almost painfully around his
metacarpals. Neither spoke as she stared at her mother and he
stared at her pale face. The hint of tears threatened in her eyes,
but he knew she would never allow herself to shed them in the
hospital.

It seemed an eternity before she sighed and sat back in her chair,
looking at him with pleading eyes. He’d never seen her so
vulnerable, and wondered where her sword and armor had gone.

He stood, drawing her up with him. "Do you need to stop by
your office first?"

She nodded, though both of them knew it wasn’t true. There
was nothing in her office that wouldn’t wait, but she needed a
moment before facing questioning eyes as she left, and he knew
it, knew her.

"I’ll meet you down at your car in ten." He squeezed her hand
gently before releasing it, watching it fall back limply by her side.

Lingering for a moment by the elevators, he watched her exit the
room and stop at the nurse’s station. Her spine was straighter,
shoulders back, face composed, and she met the charge nurse’s
gaze as she spoke. As he stepped into the elevator, he smiled
sadly and wished he hadn’t just seen the strength of her resolve.

***

They hadn’t touched since leaving the hospital, where a brush of
hands to pass her car keys to him had left tears welling in her
eyes once more.

Comfort was not his forte. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; it hurt
him to see her like this. It was merely that he was not by nature
warm and nurturing, and he couldn’t stand weeping. But she
was not one to coddle, and had been there for him when it really
mattered. He owed her this.

She’d wandered through her house in a daze, before sitting down
on a stool at her breakfast bar and listlessly plucking a few
grapes off the bunch in a bowl on the counter. He watched, at a
loss, before crossing the kitchen to turn on the burner under her
teakettle because it seemed the thing to do.

As he was rummaging through her cupboards for tea and mugs,
she broke the silence. "Do you remember when my dad died?"

He didn’t turn to face her, just reached up to retrieve two blue
mugs from the shelf and nodded. It had been the spring after
they’d been involved, and were barely speaking, until she’d
appeared at his door in tears at midnight. His boards had been
the next day, but he let her in anyway, held her and drank bad
beer and was proud of himself for not taking advantage; she’d
been gone in the morning and he hadn’t seen her again until his
infarction. It was the only time he’d seen her cry.

"It was so slow, so difficult for Mom to watch. She agonized
over what to do, what he would have wanted. Afterwards she told
me she never wanted to go that way. But I still don’t know…"
She trailed off as tears finally started to fall.

Without hesitation, he made his way around the island to where
she sat and wrapped his arms around her. For all that he taunted
her about screaming and yowling, her grief was a quiet one; he
wouldn’t have known she was crying if her tears weren’t
soaking through the worn cotton of his t-shirt.

Part of him still wanted her to stop this display of emotion, to
return to the stolid, stoic Cuddy he sparred with every day. Yet
buried deep down, long-ignored, was an urge to gather her
tighter, carry her to the couch and comfort her. He couldn’t
indulge that desire any more than he could walk away, so he
shifted his weight so he leaned against the counter, and held her
while she wept.

Her tears were subsiding before he could hear the water
beginning to boil in the kettle. Under his hands, he could feel
her back straightening, strengthening, as she drew away from
him. When she spoke, her voice was rough and tentative. "We
help patients make these decisions every day, but when it’s you
deciding, what you know as a doctor isn’t always your gut
reaction. And I wonder why it’s not."

He tucks a curl back behind her ear and says nothing, knowing
she didn’t really want an answer from him.

"All I could do was sit there and hold her hand. Like it
mattered."

It was his turn to draw away, and he spoke softly, almost
whispering. "As someone who’s been there, it mattered a great
deal." The kettle whistled and he pulled from her loose embrace,
stepping away without leaving. As he poured water and added
sugar, he thought about the nervous, cool hands in his years ago,
and of Cuddy’s warm, assured touch. He never mentions them.

She was quiet as she took the mug from him, blowing on the
scalding liquid like a child as she watched him settle onto the
stool beside her. After a moment, she asked, "What was it
like?"

He quirked an eyebrow and sipped the tea, just enough to delay
having to answer. He knows what she meant, but he does not
talk about this.

"Dying." She refused to look away, though for a moment her
gaze falters, and there is fear mixed with her inquisitiveness.
That’s when he decided to tell her.

"Other people have claimed to see white lights or their lives
flashing by, everything they’ve done. Maybe they have, maybe
it’s different for everyone, maybe it depends on what you’ve
been conditioned to expect. I knew, before I even saw my
readings, that something was wrong. When I arrested there was
just a second, like a moment of freefall.

"There’s a theory in quantum mechanics that there exist an
infinite number of universes filled with all the infinite
possibilities of what can be. I experienced all of them, everything
that I could have been and could be. But at the same time, I
could still feel myself being worked on, feel you shocking me.
Not looking down on myself like people have claimed, but could
feel you touching me from outside myself. Then I hit the ground
and had the wind knocked out of me, and I could feel everything
from inside again. Those last, tingling volts." He shrugged.
His words sting and bite, they do not express. Never before has
he needed to express any of this.

One of her hands reached across to rest on his, joining him in
seeking the warmth of the hot ceramic mug, acknowledging. She
withdrew her hand as she sipped her tea, then swallowed with a
faint smile. "I suppose you liked the life best where you were a
fat, lazy emperor who had some scantily clad concubine to feed
him grapes."

"No, too much chance of being overthrown and beheaded.
Producing porn films really seemed the way to go—hot chicks,
no real responsibility, lots of sex."

That drew a laugh from her, a short sharp bark that didn’t quite
reach her eyes. Within a few seconds, she was solemn once
more. "I should call Amy, see what time she and Heather are
flying in tomorrow."

"Is Danny coming up?"

"Yeah, he’s taking the train up after a lunch meeting with some
congressman."

"Ah." House nodded and watched her slip from the stool,
snagging the phone as she left the kitchen. He listened as she
carried the phone back to her bedroom, then frowned down at the
mugs of tea. The polite thing to do would be clean them up, but
he hated cleaning on principle. She got a pass for grieving, he
supposed, and with a sigh whose dramatic effect was lost without
an audience, carried them to the sink and washed them.

Stepping into the hallway he paused, considered calling a taxi
and going home. Then he saw her bedroom door ajar, and heard
the faint slosh of bathwater. He reconsidered and turned to her
living room instead, settling himself on the couch and doing
some channel surfing. As the water came on once more, he
paused on ESPN and wondered when poker had become a sport,
then flipped on by.

Two hours later, he’d grown bored with old movies and bad
comedians and made his way back to her bedroom, now that
she’d had some time and space. The room was dim, but he
could see her curled on the far edge of the bed. Without a word,
he stripped to his boxers and t-shirt and slipped between the cool
sheets.

He’d intended to wrap himself around her, but before he had the
chance, she’d turned and flung herself onto him. She said
nothing, just buried her face against his chest and wrapped her
arms around him.

Recovering from the shock, he settled back into the pillows and
ran one hand down her spine and rested it on her hip, just at the
hem of the t-shirt she wore. For just a moment, he toyed with
the idea of skimming his hand up under the soft fabric, then
figured he’d managed to avoid taking advantage while younger
and stupider and should live up to the same standard now, being
older and a bit wiser. He kissed the top of her head and knew
neither of them would sleep well.

****
End
****