Title: White
Author: Ellie
Rating: R
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 second of three, following "Blue".

****

He woke suddenly, jolted from slumber by the possible return of
an old familiar. It was still dark outside, though a few harsh rays
of streetlight filtered through the Venetian blinds to cast odd
shadows over the woman sprawled next to him.

Even in sleep she was not cuddly; limbs akimbo, she took up
most of his bed, yet she touched him only where her toes
whispered against his calf and her left hand rested on his left
bicep. It made slipping away from her easier.

As he stood, he took a deep, bracing breath. Instead of soothing
him, the scent of their lovemaking and her perfume nagged at
him. Silently, he limped out of the room, less surely than he’d
made his way in there earlier in the evening.

Only as he sunk down on the creaking leather sofa did he allow
himself a small groan of pain and frustration. For several
months, he’d been feeling better. Had regained a bit more
mobility and used his cane less. Had been almost happy.

Now there was dull ache in his thigh once more. Before, he
wouldn’t have noticed it, so much less intense than the normal
pain level to which he’d grown accustomed. But suddenly it was
there, low and insistent, ghostly enough to hint at a return of
something much worse.

His fingers twitched with the barely restrained urge to pop open
a pill bottle, but they’d disposed of all the Vicodin. Rationally he
knew that this pain was nowhere near requiring it, but old habits
and addictions die hard. Instead, his fingers sought out the
aching muscle, trying to knead the pain away.

As he did so, he realized that there was half a bottle of vodka in
the freezer. He paused in his ministrations to ponder the
analgesic value of the liquor against giving in to possibly
needless fear. He hated irrationality in others, and wouldn’t
tolerate it from himself. Still the urge to give into old habits was
hard; alcohol and Vicodin had always been a palliative before.

Just as he prepared to rise, he heard the rattle of glasses, then the
sink. A moment later he saw her pad into view, wearing only his
button-down shirt, unbuttoned, and carrying a glass of water

.
"Here," said Cuddy, handing him two pills and the glass.

He looked up at her in the lightless room, trying to read the
expression on a face hidden by shadow and curls.

She sank down onto the couch beside him, tucking her feet up
and resting a hand on his shoulder. "It’s just aspirin."

Without a word, he swallowed the pills, then downed half the
water. For a moment they sat quietly. "How did you know?"

"You’re not the only one with intuition."

He twirled the glass in his hand, watching the water swirl and
sparkle, catching the traces of light available. The urge to be glib,
dismiss all of this, was strong, almost stronger than the desire for
Vicodin a moment ago. But he owed them both more than that.
"It’s hurting. It woke me."

"Like before?" She ran a hand through her hair, brushing it
away from her face and revealing a flash of concern.

"No," he said, quickly, reassuring himself more than her.
"Less intense, just an insistent dull ache."

"You exerted yourself." She leaned closer, nipped his earlobe,
and whispered against his ear, "I told you it was more than was
necessary."

He shifted away slightly and turned to face her. "But it was
what I wanted! I want to be able to try every position in the
Kama Sutra then make up a few more. I don’t want to wake up
agonizing over my leg because it hurts after I ate you out then
fucked you from behind!"

"And I’d like to fuck you without worrying that you’ll wake up
jonesing for narcotics at three in the morning. So we try some
different things, see what works and what doesn’t. If you wake
up hurting, we know that doesn’t work, and try something
different next time."

"I shouldn’t wake up jonesing." He doesn’t want to admit this
about himself. He doesn’t want to have this discussion, not now,
not ever. But the dark makes it easier, lets him talk to an empty
water glass instead of the perceptive eyes beside him.

Anyone else would be tender, reassuring, coddling. She is not
anyone else. "You were an addict, Greg. There will always be
nights when you wake up wanting, sometimes for no reason at
all. You know how addiction functions." She is honest with
him, even when it hurts, and he remembers why he loves her
enough to discuss this.

"Your course of treatment then, since you have all the answers?"
The words are hard, but the tone is not. If only she could hand
him answers on a silver platter.

"If I did we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We wouldn’t
be sitting here." He can hear the edge to her voice now, knows
she’s teetering on the edge of what she’s willing to contemplate
at this hour. Neither of them like to ponder what-ifs.

"That’s not an answer," he says, truly wanting to hear what she
has to say. Dodging the question is too easy, and she’s better
than the easy way out.

"Wake me up. Take some aspirin. Play your piano. What did
you do before, when you tried to take your mind off your leg?"

"Bothered you or Wilson. Drank. Played my piano."

"No drinking. But there you go. Distract your mind. You
always felt better when your brain was occupied."

"Because distracting myself worked so well previously."

"What do you think you should do?" she asks, trying to turn
the tables.

He initially resists the invitation to indulgent self-analysis, but
considers the question. "Avoid the urge to self-destruct when
self-distraction fails."

"And talk to me before, not after the fact." She was somber
now, broking no arguments. He wanted to argue, if only for
principle, but knew she should have this one.

"Don’t yell at me for ruining your beauty sleep when the phone
rings at four in the morning."

When she smiled, the glint of her teeth was startling in the
darkness. Leaning close, she whispered, "There’s a reason I
have caller ID." Before he could answer, she was up off the
couch, and he could hear her padding back to the bedroom.

After several deep breaths, he stood and realized the pain was
receding. Distractions, he thought, as he followed her back to
bed.

****
End
****