FF: Slowly
Title: Slowly
Rating: PG13
Pairing: House/Cuddy
Spoilers: Post-“Who’s Your Daddy?”
Summary: Slowly, slowly run the horses of the night. -Ovid
****
The rendition of “Greensleeves” was almost childlike, tentatively largo and overly pianissimo, but nevertheless there was something anodyne about it. Perhaps it was because he loved the pianist; perhaps it was because he was stoned.
Groggily, he opened one eye, then the other, and blinked to clear his vision. Tilting his head, he could see her perched on the edge of the piano bench, dark curls shuttering her face.
When she stopped, hands stilling for a moment before silently fingering keys as if trying to remember the strokes before beginning, he broke the spell. “You play like an eight-year-old.” Hoarse with sleep and drugs, it came off harsher than he’d intended.
Her hands flew from the keys to her lap before she turned to face him. Even across the room, he could see the smudged mascara under her eyes and the storm raging in them, doctor warring with lover. “How are you feeling?” she asked, too neutrally, as she stood and padded across to the couch in her stockinged feet.
“Better, now that you’ve stopped abusing my baby grand,” he said. It wasn’t true; there was nothing he found more wondrous than waking to find her there.
For a long moment she just stared down at him, her mouth drawn, then she shook her head and nodded towards the overstuffed chair. “What the fuck were you thinking?” Her gentle tone cleared the smirk from his face.
A glace that way revealed that she’d cleared away his syringe and morphine, and unceremoniously discarded the emergency box there. “I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t hurt anymore.” He closed his eyes, not wanting to see her reaction.
The leather couch creaked softly as she sat next to him, one hand resting feather-light on his thigh. He resisted the urge to flinch away from her touch as she said, “You should have called. I’d have come sooner.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered.” He dared open his eyes, saw her gazing down at him with raw concern. With hurt of her own. He knew that statement hurt her, but it didn’t make it less true.
“Does it matter now?” The loaded question, as the weight of her hand on his ravaged thigh suddenly felt like the weight of the world. More than he could bear now, ever.
“When the pain hits a ten, nothing else matters but relief. You’re here now, and that’s a relief.”
“What is it now?” The doctor façade overtook her face.
For a minute he was quiet, honestly assessing. “Seven,” he sighed.
“Manageable, with the morphine?” Her hand left his thigh and settled gently on his stubbly cheek.
He leaned into her soft fingers, infinitesimally rubbing against them. “Yes.”
“You should eat something.” She patted his cheek and rose, heading for his kitchen. He listened to the rattling of bottles in this fridge, and clanking pots and pans, and knew that she would be an excellent mother.
Breathing deeply, slowly, steadily, listening to her to divert his mind from his pain, he sat up on the couch, assessing the fogginess of his mind. There was something reassuring in the way the morphine could still affect him, so completely disassociate his senses from his sensations.
Cuddy returned with a plate of pasta, smothered in a red sauce he didn’t know he’d had. She sat it in front of him and softly said, “Eat.” Then she grabbed the remote before he could and channel surfed to baseball.
He ate slowly, wondering how she’d managed to make something to delicious in his kitchen. Wondering how she’d come to be here, slouched on his sofa, barefoot and watching baseball and being exactly what he needed now.
After finishing the farfalle, he must have drifted off again into the morphine haze, because he was awakened by her hand on his shoulder, gently kneading.
“You should go to bed.” She sounded exhausted, but didn’t protest when, without asking, he leaned on her to lead him back to his room. He didn’t protest when she sat him down on the bed and began to undress him like a child, until he was sitting in boxers and a t-shirt.
He caught her hand as she dropped his oxford to the floor, toyed with her fingers and looked at her tired eyes. “Staying?”
Her eyes dragged closed then open again, and she nodded, running her free hand through his hair. She pulled away from him and he collapsed back onto the bed, twisting under the covers and tumbling towards slumber.
Before sleep overtook him, he felt the bed shifting, covers fluttering. His hand crept blindly across the void and found the curve of her waist, urging her closer.
She came, nestling close and warm at his side. “I want you to come in with me tomorrow so we can have a look at your leg.” Her voice was soft and insistent in his ear. Her fingers were gentle as they traced the remains of his muscles.
He nodded into her hair in response, beyond words. Gradually the warmth of her fingers permeated his thigh, easing him down to a six and sleep.
****
End
****
Rating: PG13
Pairing: House/Cuddy
Spoilers: Post-“Who’s Your Daddy?”
Summary: Slowly, slowly run the horses of the night. -Ovid
****
The rendition of “Greensleeves” was almost childlike, tentatively largo and overly pianissimo, but nevertheless there was something anodyne about it. Perhaps it was because he loved the pianist; perhaps it was because he was stoned.
Groggily, he opened one eye, then the other, and blinked to clear his vision. Tilting his head, he could see her perched on the edge of the piano bench, dark curls shuttering her face.
When she stopped, hands stilling for a moment before silently fingering keys as if trying to remember the strokes before beginning, he broke the spell. “You play like an eight-year-old.” Hoarse with sleep and drugs, it came off harsher than he’d intended.
Her hands flew from the keys to her lap before she turned to face him. Even across the room, he could see the smudged mascara under her eyes and the storm raging in them, doctor warring with lover. “How are you feeling?” she asked, too neutrally, as she stood and padded across to the couch in her stockinged feet.
“Better, now that you’ve stopped abusing my baby grand,” he said. It wasn’t true; there was nothing he found more wondrous than waking to find her there.
For a long moment she just stared down at him, her mouth drawn, then she shook her head and nodded towards the overstuffed chair. “What the fuck were you thinking?” Her gentle tone cleared the smirk from his face.
A glace that way revealed that she’d cleared away his syringe and morphine, and unceremoniously discarded the emergency box there. “I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t hurt anymore.” He closed his eyes, not wanting to see her reaction.
The leather couch creaked softly as she sat next to him, one hand resting feather-light on his thigh. He resisted the urge to flinch away from her touch as she said, “You should have called. I’d have come sooner.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered.” He dared open his eyes, saw her gazing down at him with raw concern. With hurt of her own. He knew that statement hurt her, but it didn’t make it less true.
“Does it matter now?” The loaded question, as the weight of her hand on his ravaged thigh suddenly felt like the weight of the world. More than he could bear now, ever.
“When the pain hits a ten, nothing else matters but relief. You’re here now, and that’s a relief.”
“What is it now?” The doctor façade overtook her face.
For a minute he was quiet, honestly assessing. “Seven,” he sighed.
“Manageable, with the morphine?” Her hand left his thigh and settled gently on his stubbly cheek.
He leaned into her soft fingers, infinitesimally rubbing against them. “Yes.”
“You should eat something.” She patted his cheek and rose, heading for his kitchen. He listened to the rattling of bottles in this fridge, and clanking pots and pans, and knew that she would be an excellent mother.
Breathing deeply, slowly, steadily, listening to her to divert his mind from his pain, he sat up on the couch, assessing the fogginess of his mind. There was something reassuring in the way the morphine could still affect him, so completely disassociate his senses from his sensations.
Cuddy returned with a plate of pasta, smothered in a red sauce he didn’t know he’d had. She sat it in front of him and softly said, “Eat.” Then she grabbed the remote before he could and channel surfed to baseball.
He ate slowly, wondering how she’d managed to make something to delicious in his kitchen. Wondering how she’d come to be here, slouched on his sofa, barefoot and watching baseball and being exactly what he needed now.
After finishing the farfalle, he must have drifted off again into the morphine haze, because he was awakened by her hand on his shoulder, gently kneading.
“You should go to bed.” She sounded exhausted, but didn’t protest when, without asking, he leaned on her to lead him back to his room. He didn’t protest when she sat him down on the bed and began to undress him like a child, until he was sitting in boxers and a t-shirt.
He caught her hand as she dropped his oxford to the floor, toyed with her fingers and looked at her tired eyes. “Staying?”
Her eyes dragged closed then open again, and she nodded, running her free hand through his hair. She pulled away from him and he collapsed back onto the bed, twisting under the covers and tumbling towards slumber.
Before sleep overtook him, he felt the bed shifting, covers fluttering. His hand crept blindly across the void and found the curve of her waist, urging her closer.
She came, nestling close and warm at his side. “I want you to come in with me tomorrow so we can have a look at your leg.” Her voice was soft and insistent in his ear. Her fingers were gentle as they traced the remains of his muscles.
He nodded into her hair in response, beyond words. Gradually the warmth of her fingers permeated his thigh, easing him down to a six and sleep.
****
End
****