Title: You Play
Author: Ellie
Rating: R
Spoilers: Post "Whac-a-Mole"
Summary: "They’ve had this thing, this odd, undiscussed
sexual thing, for a few months now, since the pain came back."

****
"You play, you win, you play, you lose. You play." –Jeanette
Winterson, The Passion
****

She heard him approaching long before he knocked on her door;
in the quiet neighborhood, the rumble of the bike echoed loudly
along the leafy streets. Tonight the knock was barely existent, a
pair of dull thuds against the wood. When she opened the door,
he was leaning against the frame, all tight, awkward angles, and
neither spoke as she let him in, lips grazing in a passing kiss,
watching as he moved ponderously down her hallway.

They’ve had this thing, this odd, undiscussed sexual thing, for a
few months now, since the pain came back. Some nights, he just
appears at her door and she lets him in and he’s gone in the
morning and they don’t talk about it. There’s been no talk of
babies or commitment or love, but there have been no condoms
and mutual comfort. She’s not going to question it, not tonight,
maybe not ever. She just appreciates that when she showed up
on his doorstep near tears after another negative pregnancy test,
he didn’t ask any questions, just let her in and held her. Words
were not necessary.

Before following him to her room, she locks the door and turns
off the lights. She’s done for the night, had only been awake
because she was expecting him. There’s only one light on in her
room, casting a soft glow over the trail of backpack, jacket, shoes,
and cane strewn across her floor, leading to House, sprawled
across her duvet. With anyone else, the pose would appear
relaxed and easy, but he was all precise angles and tense
expression, and she toed off her slippers and settled onto the bed
beside him, the pink candystriped flannel of her pajama pants
brushing his bare hand.

"It still hurts, doesn’t it?" she asks quietly, wondering if he’ll
respond. This has never been about talking.

"Yeah," he says, tight and clipped. When she looks at him, she
could drown in the pleading in his eyes, and she has to look
away, staring instead at the white knuckles of his hand, clutching
at her duvet.

"Sit up a sec." Like a child, he does, while she undresses him,
pulling the wrinkled dress shirt over his head since it’s already
half-unbuttoned. There’s nothing erotic as she slips off his
jeans, hand brushing the length of his legs as she pulls them
down. In spite of the maligned thigh, the rest of him is well
developed, firm as her hands slide back up. There’s a hitch in
his breathing when she reaches the thigh again.

It’s not about her touching him there; it never has been. One of
the few things he has told her was that she’s the only one who’s
never shied away from it the way even Stacy had. Cuddy knows
that Stacy’s aversion had nothing to do with him and everything
to do with her own guilt. She feels guilt, too, but it’s over
everything else she could have done, not what she did.

Tonight it’s not about his leg. Her hands continue their way up
his flanks, firm enough not to tickle, and catch the hem of his t-
shirt and rumple it up, off over his head before urging him back
down. "Roll over."

He’s shockingly docile tonight, too tired from fighting the pain
to fight her. For just a moment, she studies the bare expanse of
his back, the subtle curvature and delicate articulation. So much
of his remaining strength, and all his worry, is carried here.
Eventually, she shifts, careful not to jostle him unnecessarily, just
enough to make her point, and runs her hand over the flesh.
He’s chilled from being outside in the freezing night with
nothing more than that absurdly sexy little motorcycle jacket, but
the flesh warms quickly under her fingers as they glide and
probe, following the channel of his spine and each attached
muscle.

She works her way up his body, touch growing firmer as she
moves and his breathing deepens. When she pushes away from
his spine and across his shoulder blade, a groan escapes him,
down pillows doing little to muffle it. Repeating the maneuver
draws the same response, so she carefully settles herself across
his lower back and sets to work on his right shoulder. There’s
something that’s almost a sob, almost, short and sharp and
followed by a profound silence. Just because the pain’s
psychosomatic doesn’t make it less painful, and the angry, taut
trapezius under her fingers make that clear.

Eventually, he shocks her by breaking the silence with something
more than a groan, just as she sets to work on his infraspinatus.
"Wilson and I aren’t talking."

She doesn’t know how to respond to that, so she stays quiet and
waits for him to continue, though part of her wants to crow that
she was right. He’s always been a fragmentary revelation, and
even after years she doesn’t have a clear picture. Wilson had it,
she thought, but perhaps she was wrong, had misplaced her trust
in him, had gone further awry than she thought.

"Did you know he’s referring his patients to other oncologists
because he can’t write prescriptions?"

"Yeah," she eventually manages, feeling him relaxing under her.

"How can we have a hospital without an Oncology Department?
Giving him Cameron to write scripts didn’t help anyone, and
now he’s pissed off that I’ve ruined everything for him." He
angrily shook his head as much as he could, and she could feel
the tension returning.

Leaning down, she kissed the back of his neck. "The lawyers
are on it. Tritter’s charges are full of shit, and you know it. Yes,
he’s justified in being pissed off at you for stealing his pad, but
I’m not letting either of you go down for this."

"Playing the princess in shining armor?"

"Someone has to save you from yourself, and save Wilson from
you. You’d destroy everyone."

"What about you?" He twists his head, muscles flexing under
her fingers, so he can stare at her, and she suddenly feels like the
vulnerable one. Since she first met him, he’s been able to do
that, and most of the time it scares her. Tonight she just feels
raw, exposed.

"You’d destroy me too, if I gave you half a chance. You might
anyway."

Underneath her, he shifts, rolling over so she’s left sitting over
his abdomen and trying not to crush anything vital. "I never
wanted that. What I do to myself is my business, but when he
starts dragging Wilson and my fellows into this, and you…."
He trails off, and while she’s surprised to hear him say this
much, she’s also surprised to see someone so expressive without
the words to explain.

It’s dim, but she can see the vulnerability clearly on his face,
something she’s only seen a handful of times, something he
rarely reveals to anyone. She’s fairly certain the number of
people who’ve seen this expression can be counted on one hand
with fingers to spare. He looks like a lost child, an outstanding
feat for a man with graying stubble and the story of his life
etched on his flesh. There are no words to answer him, either,
not in any language she knows, and probably not in the myriad
of tongues he speaks, nothing that’s honest and reassuring to
either of them.

Instead, she leans down and catches the frowning lips with her
own, teasing him for just a moment before he responds in kind,
arms coming up and surrounding her. He’s not aroused, and
given that little worried gasp as she shifts a bit back towards his
bad thigh, she knows tonight isn’t about sex. Sexual, the way it
always has been, but not about sex, just a man and a woman and
the undefined something between them.

She’ll take what she can, gives more than she can, letting him
take everything the way he’s always wanted to. He’s not
ungenerous, in his way, but now there’s nothing more to give,
and he’s running in the red. All she can do is hope to get him
through, let the lawyers do their piece, shelter everyone as much
as possible. It’s a risky bet, and she hopes to God that it pays
off, because she can’t take many more nights like this, so
dangerously close to the edge herself.

Rolling off to one side, his lips escape hers and she trails along
his rough cheek until she catches his earlobe lightly between her
teeth. "Get some rest," she whispers, knowing how badly he
needs it, how there’s no rest for the weary and no respite she can
provide will heal what ails him. But she can give him this little
thing, now.

He turns his head and catches her lips again. When they’re both
short of breath, he pulls away and says her name, a plea, an
invective, a sigh, and she didn’t know so much could be
contained in so few syllables, but nothing he does should ever
really astonish her anymore.

"I know," she says, nestling close beside him. She does, and
there’s nothing more she can do for him no matter how much
she wishes otherwise. There’s too much guilt strength narcotic
history comfort sex fear understanding love for more.

Even as he falls asleep, she can feel his heartbeat faster than
normal under the fingers resting on his wrist. It’s the biggest
gamble she’s ever taken, and she prays she wins.

****
End
****