House slept in until 9am, waking up to a cloudy day. No dreams, but that wasn't a big deal. No dreams were better than bad dreams. He had seen both sides of the whole dreaming thing very clearly. Sleeping in was still a novelty for him. He lay there for a while under the cozy blankets, enjoying the fact that his leg wasn't killing him. The bottle of Vicodin was on the night table, next to the alarm clock. He hadn't touched it in five days. Today would make six. A new record for a new day. The thought made him giggle like a moron.
The other side of the bed was empty. He didn't even have to look. He didn't want to be alone, but there was nothing he could about that for the time being. Cuddy was, if anything, good at her job and being good meant having a good attendance record. Hopefully she could find the time to call or stop by early.
Cuddy usually woke him up when she was getting ready to go to the hospital after spending the night with him, no matter how careful she tried to be. There was always the sound of a drawer being opened, the television clicking on, the jangle of car keys that never failed to make his eyes fly wide open. At least until today. Today he slept right through it.
Interesting.
He sat up carefully, feeling shaky and lightheaded from the endless days of bed rest. Considering the major trauma he went through, feeling shaky wasn't all that bad. It was his stomach wound that still bothered him. It was still tender and was beginning to flare up again. He stood up and winced as his wound protested to going through even that little bit of exercise. However, it wasn't too bad. Even on a good day his leg pain had been ten times worse. He shuffled out of the bedroom, barely glancing at the cane propped up against the dresser.
In the kitchen, he made a beeline for the stove, checking to make sure Cuddy didn't use up all the water in the kettle. Still plenty in there, he switched on the heat. In the dish drainer he saw the remains of her morning: a coffee cup, a bowl. A single wayward corn flake stuck to the side of the sink. She never failed to wash up the dishes after her solitary breakfasts in his kitchen. Always so considerate.
Though the alarm hadn't been set, Cuddy still woke up with some time to spare. The sun hadn't bothered to take its place in the sky yet. The room was still covered with the remains of early morning darkness. She had slept about six hours, not enough to make up for the last few weeks, but definitely better than the night before. Her next day off was four long days away. She was going to have to tough it out until then.
She looked down at House, who was almost lost in a tangle of blankets and shadows. He was in a deep slumber, his breathing slow and quiet. The memory of falling asleep in his arms and feeling him brush her temple made her heart ache. Wait, something was different about him this morning. What was it? Cuddy stared, trying to see what was right in front of her. It took three minutes before it hit her like a hammer to her thumb: he was sleeping on his right side. All the times she had shared his bed, and vice versa, she had never seen him sleep on his right side. He had told her that caused a deep, primal, growling pain down to the bone. It lasted for days and a hundred Vicodin couldn't touch it. Yet there he was, his weight on his bad leg, without a single concern of what misery it might bring him in a few hours.
Because his leg wasn't hurting anymore?
His cane was over by the dresser, across the room. He usually kept it within easy reach.
The ketamine was helping him. That much was obvious even to a blind man.
But how much? And for how long? Could the pain come back tonight?
She didn't have all morning to mull over those thoughts. She needed to get ready and eat before facing another ungodly early meeting with some the dullest doctors and bureaucrats to ever walk the Earth. Stuffy, humorless bureaucrats always gave her a headache. Eight o'clock meetings were enough to give her a bleeding ulcer. There was a ten o'clock meeting after that. Good grief, it never ended. Getting out of bed was a chore.
The closet door stuck, then finally came open with what seemed to be a horrendously loud bone-jarring crack. What sounded like a soft thump to the rest of the world was a shotgun blast to House. Cuddy slowly turned her gaze to the bed, expecting House to sit bolt upright and gripe about all the goddamn noise. Instead she saw that he was still out like a broken light, not moving a muscle.
Unable to help herself, she padded back over to the bed. Just to be sure, she felt his pulse. Strong and steady. He was still miles away in dreamland. She had never seen any sleeping pills around his apartment. There was no pain to wake him up. Some light began to creep into the room. The sight of a bare-chested House looking so serene and peaceful made Cuddy want to say to hell with it and crawl back into bed with him. It was tempting. So very tempting.
Temptation had to be put aside. This meeting couldn't be skipped. The stuffy bureaucrats would have her hide. She sighed and padded back to the closet, pulling out a suit that had 'I'm the boss' written all over it.
She silently wished House sweet dreams and went to the kitchen, determined to get of the meetings early enough to call him before his soaps came on.