Another sleepless night for her, another night of sleeping like the dead for him. Cuddy stared at the clock and watched the minutes drag by while House quietly snored into her shoulder.
He was out walking around. His leg was feeling better. That was great news and she wouldn't dare say otherwise. But did that mean House himself was on the mend? Was fixing his leg going to fix all problems with House's psyche? He had had more than a few quirks and issues long before the infarction and the shooting. Ketamine couldn't make those magically disappear.
She had counted the pills again after he fell asleep and there were still fifteen. Of course, that didn't really mean anything. House could be a clever, sneaky bastard when he wanted to be. There could be a dozen stashes hidden around the apartment. Yet she had spent hours upon hours with him and hadn't caught him trying to sneak a pill. Either he was being very very clever about it or he wasn't taking them, and she couldn't see any reason for him to hide his pill addiction now when he had been so brazen about it before.
Okay, he wasn't taking any Vicodin. For now. How long would the honeymoon period last and the cravings could no longer be ignored?
House grunted and turned over, mumbling an unintelligible string of nonsensical syllables and the occasional real word before settling back into low snoring. Feeling cold without the cover of his body heat, Cuddy pulled up the blankets, then gave up and pressed herself against his back until she felt close enough to be a second skin.
She wondered if the ketamine treatment, and getting his hopes up, had just made things worse.
It was like they were standing on a trap door, neither of them knowing when it was going to fall open and they would drop down into an endless nothing.
"Are you chicken?" House asked with his patented smug grin. "Damn British blokes. We kick your ass time and time again, yet you always come back for more."
"For the last time, I'm not British!" Chase gaped with mock horror.
"Why is the Queen on your money? Because you dig frumpy chicks? Queen Victoria was Empress of India and she never set foot in the place."
"So? What does that have to do with me?"
"Does Elizabeth stop by to say howdy and have some tea and scones with the kangaroos?"
"I'm not British and I'm not a chicken."
"So you're an Australian turkey vulture. You gonna play or what?"
The blond doctor looked over at Cuddy with pleading eyes, an odd mix of defeated resignation and I should have known this would happen. He had stopped by only to see how House was doing and intended to stay only for a few minutes. The older doctor was disappointed that Chase didn't have any cookies and dragged him into the kitchen. For a few seconds Chase thought he was going to have to whip up a batch of cookies right then and there until he saw House bring out the battered dusty box.
Cuddy gave the Australian no mercy. "Just humor him," she said. "Life will be a lot easier for all of us."
"I haven't played checkers since I was a kid," Chase said, as he watched House open the box and lift out the board. He noted his boss' exceptionally good mood and hoped it would carry over the next ten years or so. He hadn't seen House that jubilant since Foreman's four-week tenure as Head of Diagnostics expired.
"It's like riding a bike," House told him, handing over the black checkers. "Once you learn, you never forget."
"Uh...sure." Chase sighed, knowing he was trapped for a little while. "Could I possibly get a drink?"
"Just plain old liquid or something with alcohol in it?" House asked, arranging his red checkers without looking up.
"What kind of alcohol do you have?"
"There's a beer or two in the fridge, plus there's some scotch and brandy."
Chase perked up. "I'd love a glass of scotch."
"You're getting one glass," Cuddy said pointedly. "I don't need my doctors driving around drunk." She gave House an equally pointed glance as she got up and went to the liquor cabinet. "You're getting only glass, too. Getting falling-down drunk isn't going to help you or your leg."
"Killjoy," the older doctor muttered just loud enough for her to catch.
She set down the glasses and scotch, letting them pour their own drinks, then settled back to watch House make mincemeat of his underling. She watched House smile and enjoy himself, free from the vice that had gripped his leg, drinking it all in and committing it to memory, because she knew it was all too good to last.