GET HAPPY, GET BETTER

INTRODUCTION: A sudden flash of pain changes everything. When House is about to leave Dominika on the couch, at the end of "Fall from Grace", his leg refuses to cooperate, forcing him to accept help from her. How will he deal with his developing feelings for her? Is he going to move on from his breakup with Cuddy? Read and find out.

CHAPTER 1: A LONG NIGHT

"I never sleep with married women", he said the words. Making those words leave his mouth was, in itself, a challenge. Under any other circumstances, he wouldn't say no to the advances of a young and beautiful woman. But, that night, it all felt so wrong. Worse, he couldn't say why it felt like that. Was it because he still was pining for the love he'd lost so recently or because he, in a weird, strange and unfathomable way, wished things could play out in a different way between them. Momentarily, he forced himself to look at her. Yes, she was most definitely one of the women a man would die or kill to have. But it wasn't just about her beauty. He attempted to look at her eyes, to try and read the enigmatic look she sported. Yet, he found himself suddenly unwilling for any kind of contact with another human being. All he wanted was to lie down, to rest, or, rather, to try and forget about everything and everybody.

"I'm going to bed. You can take the couch", he muttered and tried to rise in an abrupt move. A way too abrupt move, for his own good. On the next instant, he was feeling blinding pain from his bad leg, the muscle having tensed very much. Biting his lower lip to prevent himself from screaming, he sank back on the couch, his fingers digging into the leather. She wasn't slow in understanding what was happening. "Your leg?", she asked. Unable to answer due to the sheer amount of pain, he nodded. "Drop your pants", she said. "What?", he responded flabbergasted, his voice more like a croak. "I give you massage", she clarified, adding, "drop your pants so I can see the damage". He sighed deeply, the pain still refusing to go to a lower level. House hated to expose his mangled thigh, let alone to a complete stranger. A complete stranger to whose finger I slipped a wedding ring, he thought. As he dropped his pants, he said, in a raspy voice, "I hope you know what you're doing", to which she responded, "I'm qualified aesthetician and therapist". Kneeling in front of him, she inspected his bad thigh. He half expected her to recoil or to gasp in terror when she saw how the morons had butchered him, but instead she started rubbing along the sore area, trying to coax the muscle into relaxing. He let out a small sigh, akin to one of relief, when her deft hands started doing the job. "Try to think of something good", she instructed him, clarifying, "It's very tense, you need to relax".

Think of something good... Easier said than done. All he could think about was the recent events, and they weren't pleasant in any way. He threw his head back, closing his eyes, trying to clear his mind from all thoughts instead. This had the adverse effect. Instead of relaxing, he was tensing more and more. She noticed and once more instructed, "Just relax", continuing her rubbing. "You keep going", he answered, now his gaze settling on her. "Your knees... Aren't you getting sore?", he enquired, unable to tell where this pang of interest came from. "Don't worry about that, relax", she brushed his concern off. He didn't reply, feeling too weak to say anything. Strange as it may seem, she was doing a good job. He could feel his pain somehow subsiding, not torturing him so much. Letting her do her stuff for some moments more, he finally stated, "You can stop now". "Don't try rising", she admonished him, but he refused to listen.

If only he'd listened, he soon realized. For the second time in the same night, his abrupt movement exerted the muscle too much. "Oh, crap", he managed to say, as the pain coursed through him again. "It seems I'm stuck here for tonight", he made the bitter observation. "Stop talking", she responded and got back to massaging him. This time, he listened. She resumed her earlier rubbing, kneading, feeling, using all the techniques in her arsenal to help him feel better. He let a grunt escape every now and then, something unusual. He'd seen a huge variety of therapists all those years, he never made the smallest grimace, never emitted the slightest sound, until tonight. His throbbing muscle was starting to respond to her ministrations, gradually the pain becoming less intense, more dull, reaching the familiar levels. "Lie on couch", she said, adding, "you can pull your pants up now".

She helped him lie down and seated herself on the floor next to him. "Let muscle relax for some minutes and I help you to bed", she offered. "Nah, I'm staying here tonight", he said in resignation, fearful that, when he tried to rise again, the pain would return. "You can take the bed tonight, I don't mind", he added. Where did this come from?, he thought. "I stay right here, to take care of you", she responded. Why is she making it so difficult?, he wondered again. Mere moments later, she was up again. "Where are you going?", he asked. "Making myself a cup of tea. Want one yourself?", was her answer. "You don't have to", he replied and turned his back to her. "At least, let me take your shoes off", she offered. "If that's gonna make you stop talking", he answered in resignation. Wasting no time, she removed his shoes and, after leaving them near the apartment door, headed straight for the kitchen. The diagnostician closed his eyes, hoping that sleep would come and ease the situation, but no luck. "Damn", he said to himself.

She returned with the chamomile. "Here's yours", she said, leaving the cup on the coffee table. "That table is for Scotch", he blurted out. "Drink it before it grows cold", she instructed, taking a generous sip from her own cup. "Mmm, try it", she suggested. "Can't you find something else to do?", he said, immediately regretting his harsh tone. "You drink first", she shot back. "Do you nag all your fake husbands that much?", he retorted, getting no reply from her, other than a glare. He took hold of his cup and drained it in a few swift gulps. "Better now", she remarked, raising her own cup and saying a toast, "To your health", drinking its contents. "Toast with chamomile, that's definitely something rare", he observed. Seeing her rise again, he enquired, "Where to now?". "To wash cups", she answered, disappearing into the kitchen again.

When she returned, she was holding a pillow and a blanket. "Lift your head up", she instructed, and he obliged her. She placed the pillow in its proper place and helped him lie down again. Spreading the blanket on him, she remarked, "I hope you're comfortable enough now". "I'll be more comfortable when you stop prancing around", he responded. She snorted, but said nothing. Instead, she returned to her former position, sitting on the floor next to him. "I've already said you can go to bed", he said. "Thanks. I'm staying here", she responded, her voice walking a tightrope between seriousness and playfulness. He sighed again, not knowing how to react. For all his reluctance to admit it, he was actually feeling comfortable. The pain was not gone, but it still was much lighter than it was earlier. He felt warm under the blanket and the pillow was nice and soft. But, as odd as it might seem, the best part was the fact that someone was watching over him. What does she hope to win with this?, he asked himself.

Yet, his mind refused to continue thinking about this. All he wanted was rest. For a brief moment, he cast a look at her, fixed in her position. He didn't get why she was still there, but couldn't gather the strength to tell her to go away. Did he really want her to go away, however? He couldn't answer. All of a sudden, he turned towards her and suggested, "If you insist on staying here, at least place the other pillow under your...", his voice trailed off. "Butt?", she completed the sentence with a mischievous wink. "Thank you", she added and went on to retrieve a pillow, sitting on it. The way she was sitting, her cheek was inches away from his hand. Momentarily, he thought of stroking her cheek, but ultimately decided against it. He shifted position, wishing to increase the distance between them the more it was possible. That's straight outta a TV show, he thought. Sleep finally overtook him, his sham wife still watching over him, still in that white wedding dress.

When he woke up, the sun was shining. It took him a moment to recall all the events of the previous night. He rubbed his eyes, banishing sleep away. Dominika appeared in the room, carrying a cup of coffee and a glass of juice. "You're up", she observed, adding, "you slept like a rock". Going back to the kitchen, she carried a plate with pancakes. "Your breakfast", she said. House mumbled a thanks and started eating in silence. Once more, he was stunned by the level of her culinary skills. He glanced at the clock, knowing he was already late. Normally, he didn't obsess over arriving at the hospital on time, but now this provided him with the pretext he needed to avoid her. He increased the pace of his eating, which she noticed. "It's more enjoyable when you eat slowly", she mused. "I need to go to work", he issued a curt reply, looking away from her. She didn't press the point any further, focusing on her glass of orange juice. "Have a pancake yourself", he blurted out. "Thanks", she replied and stabbed a pancake with a fork. What the...?, he thought, Was she waiting for me to offer her one?.

Soon, he was done with breakfast. Before he managed to say or do anything, however, she gathered the plates and cups, taking them to the kitchen. He needed to relieve himself, but part of him was still afraid that, upon trying to rise from the couch, his leg would start killing him again. He braced himself, shifting his position, his feet touching the floor. She'd left a pair of old slippers nearby, when she'd removed his shoes. He put them on, still seated. Taking a deep breath, he was ready to make the big attempt, when she entered the room again. "Where are you going?", she asked him, her voice betraying much concern. "Bathroom", he said. "Let me help you", she offered. "I'm a big boy, you know", he shot back. "And last night you couldn't walk", she replied, steadying him. She helped him rise and hobble all the way to the bathroom.

When he got out, she was still there, again offering to help him. This time, he declined more resolutely. "I need to get dressed", he informed her. "I've ironed three of your shirts", she remarked, leaving him speechless once more. "What?", he asked. "I've ironed three of your shirts", she repeated, stifling a yawn at the same time. It then dawned on him she hadn't slept at all throughout the night and early morning. "You didn't have to", he answered. "You look better in ironed shirt", she explained, leaving him alone to get dressed. When he finished, she scanned him from head to toe, declaring, "All girls are gonna swoon", flashing him a smile. Yeah, because a 50-year-old misanthropic cripple is so adorable, he thought, but didn't say it aloud. "Gotta go", he instead answered. Fleetingly, he entertained the thought of going towards her instead of the door, squeezing her tight against him and kissing her fiercely, until she gasped for air. Shaking his head, he banished the thought, limping towards the door. As he was about to open it, he looked at her and said, "Try to get some sleep. See you at evening". Leaving her alone in the apartment, he walked out of the building, wanting to focus on his work, on anything else except her.