Title: WhiteAuthor: Ellie
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: No Reason
Summary: Post No Reason, the fallout from the ketamine treatment
Notes: Inspired by Kieslowski's "Trois Couleurs" trilogy, which was in turn inspired by the symbolism of the French flag. The second of three, following "Blue".

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He woke suddenly, jolted from slumber by the possible return of an old familiar. It was still dark outside, though a few harsh rays of streetlight filtered through the Venetian blinds to cast odd shadows over the woman sprawled next to him.

Even in sleep she was not cuddly; limbs akimbo, she took up most of his bed, yet she touched him only where her toes whispered against his calf and her left hand rested on his left bicep. It made slipping away from her easier.

As he stood, he took a deep, bracing breath. Instead of soothing him, the scent of their lovemaking and her perfume nagged at him. Silently, he limped out of the room, less surely than he'd made his way in there earlier in the evening.

Only as he sunk down on the creaking leather sofa did he allow himself a small groan of pain and frustration. For several months, he'd been feeling better. Had regained a bit more mobility and used his cane less. Had been almost happy.

Now there was dull ache in his thigh once more. Before, he wouldn't have noticed it, so much less intense than the normal pain level to which he'd grown accustomed. But suddenly it was there, low and insistent, ghostly enough to hint at a return of something much worse.

His fingers twitched with the barely restrained urge to pop open a pill bottle, but they'd disposed of all the Vicodin. Rationally he knew that this pain was nowhere near requiring it, but old habits and addictions die hard. Instead, his fingers sought out the aching muscle, trying to knead the pain away.

As he did so, he realized that there was half a bottle of vodka in the freezer. He paused in his ministrations to ponder the analgesic value of the liquor against giving in to possibly needless fear. He hated irrationality in others, and wouldn't tolerate it from himself. Still the urge to give into old habits was hard; alcohol and Vicodin had always been a palliative before.

Just as he prepared to rise, he heard the rattle of glasses, then the sink. A moment later he saw her pad into view, wearing only his button-down shirt, unbuttoned, and carrying a glass of water.

"Here," said Cuddy, handing him two pills and the glass.

He looked up at her in the lightless room, trying to read the expression on a face hidden by shadow and curls.

She sank down onto the couch beside him, tucking her feet up and resting a hand on his shoulder. "It's just aspirin."

Without a word, he swallowed the pills, then downed half the water. For a moment they sat quietly. "How did you know?"

"You're not the only one with intuition."

He twirled the glass in his hand, watching the water swirl and sparkle, catching the traces of light available. The urge to be glib, dismiss all of this, was strong, almost stronger than the desire for Vicodin a moment ago. But he owed them both more than that. "It's hurting. It woke me."

"Like before?" She ran a hand through her hair, brushing it away from her face and revealing a flash of concern.

"No," he said, quickly, reassuring himself more than her. "Less intense, just an insistent dull ache."

"You exerted yourself." She leaned closer, nipped his earlobe, and whispered against his ear, "I told you it was more than was necessary."

He shifted away slightly and turned to face her. "But it was what I wanted! I want to be able to try every position in the Kama Sutra then make up a few more. I don't want to wake up agonizing over my leg because it hurts after I ate you out then fucked you from behind!"

"And I'd like to fuck you without worrying that you'll wake up jonesing for narcotics at three in the morning. So we try some different things, see what works and what doesn't. If you wake up hurting, we know that doesn't work, and try something different next time."

"I shouldn't wake up jonesing." He doesn't want to admit this about himself. He doesn't want to have this discussion, not now, not ever. But the dark makes it easier, lets him talk to an empty water glass instead of the perceptive eyes beside him.

Anyone else would be tender, reassuring, coddling. She is not anyone else. "You were an addict, Greg. There will always be nights when you wake up wanting, sometimes for no reason at all. You know how addiction functions." She is honest with him, even when it hurts, and he remembers why he loves her enough to discuss this.

"Your course of treatment then, since you have all the answers?" The words are hard, but the tone is not. If only she could hand him answers on a silver platter.

"If I did we wouldn't be having this conversation. We wouldn't be sitting here." He can hear the edge to her voice now, knows she's teetering on the edge of what she's willing to contemplate at this hour. Neither of them like to ponder what-ifs.

"That's not an answer," he says, truly wanting to hear what she has to say. Dodging the question is too easy, and she's better than the easy way out.

"Wake me up. Take some aspirin. Play your piano. What did you do before, when you tried to take your mind off your leg?"

"Bothered you or Wilson. Drank. Played my piano."

"No drinking. But there you go. Distract your mind. You always felt better when your brain was occupied."

"Because distracting myself worked so well previously."

"What do you think you should do?" she asks, trying to turn the tables.

He initially resists the invitation to indulgent self-analysis, but considers the question. "Avoid the urge to self-destruct when self-distraction fails."

"And talk to me before, not after the fact." She was somber now, broking no arguments. He wanted to argue, if only for principle, but knew she should have this one.

"Don't yell at me for ruining your beauty sleep when the phone rings at four in the morning."

When she smiled, the glint of her teeth was startling in the darkness. Leaning close, she whispered, "There's a reason I have caller ID." Before he could answer, she was up off the couch, and he could hear her padding back to the bedroom.

After several deep breaths, he stood and realized the pain was receding. Distractions, he thought, as he followed her back to bed.

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