A/N: My thanks to Brynaea for willingly taking time from her busy work day to read this multiple times, and to suggest, and nudge, but never push—'cuz I'm stubborn, and I had a vision in my head, and she knew it. mjf

CHAPTER FOUR: Touched

"What are you doing awake?" Cuddy scolds House gently. "You said the reason you weren't eating was that you were sleepy."

"I said I was tired. There's a difference." House's voice is heavy with fatigue, but his eyes are bright—almost too much so.

Cuddy hands him the medication, grimaces when he takes the pills with only one small sip of water then sets the cup on the bedside table.

"House. You're not eating, not drinking, and now you're not sleeping. Are you in pain? Nauseated? Enjoying being waited on hand and foot? What is it? Talk to me." She notes that somehow, he looks even more gaunt, frailer than before.

"Been sleeping for two days. Boring. No challenge. Tired of it."

They both know that the sedated sleep he'd been in isn't the kind of sleep he needs now, and Cuddy doesn't see any profit in arguing the point with him. She starts the vital signs. Blood pressure's gone down a little more, nothing alarming, but it bears watching. When she's finished, she regards him silently for a long moment. He doesn't look away; she decides to take a chance.

"Lie back down and close your eyes."

"I told you, I'm not sleepy." His voice is irritated.

"I didn't say go to sleep. I said lie down and close your eyes; I'm trying to help you."

"Help me what? Are you trying to take advantage of me in my weakened condition? Can't you wait until I can enjoy it too?" He's smirking as he says it, but he's easing himself down into a recumbent position. Not feeling so great; might not hurt to relax. Just a few minutes.

Cuddy smirks back at him. Keep it light, no big deal. "Yeah, I'll wait on that. More fun when both participants can… participate. " She looks at him, cocks her head, puts a finger up and taps the corner of her eye, then waits. C'mon, House; don't fight it so hard, you'll come out of this with your 'bitter old cripple' reputation intact. I'd never tell a soul that you're human—they wouldn't believe me.

House sighs in exaggerated resignation, closes his eyes. Cuddy says, "We're gonna try something here. There's a new procedure, combines therapeutic touch with guided imagery and massage."

The eyes open again. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm not a touchy-feely type of guy," he says dryly. You're kidding, right? I'm missing thigh muscle, not brain cells—alternative medicine's not my thing; hell, it's not even medicine!

"House, c'mon. I just read the article—"

"Yeah, you and Wilson both. Knew he was into that laying-on-of- hands crap. Thought better of you, though." No way am I about to let you—or anyone else—touch me if it isn't a strict medical necessity. And there's been way too much medical necessity lately as it is.

"Maybe I'm taking lessons from Wilson." Cuddy is determined to do this for House; she will win this argument.

"And maybe you both need to cancel your subscriptions to that new-age medical journal you're reading."

"Look at this from an investigative point of view, House. It's an experiment; you'll be able to prove me wrong, and then you can ride me about it for the next six months."

He considers that. "Could make it worth it. Dunno. What's in it for me?"

"No clinic hours for a week—if we debunk the method. If it works, you just might feel better. It's win/win."

"So I let you invade my personal space, and all I get out of it is a week off clinic?"

Cuddy rolls her eyes. "Okay, two weeks. You're thinking of this the wrong way, House. Think of it as a medical procedure that might benefit you. Just a new medical procedure, very clinical, that's all." Her voice is brisk, matter-of-fact.

He looks unconvinced. "Two weeks?" At her affirmative nod, he grudgingly closes his eyes and makes a conscious, but only partially successful, attempt to relax. notagoodideanotagoodideanotagoodidea …but two weeks… two… icandothisicandothisicandothis … medical… clinical… investigate… experiment… two weeks… two weeks… two weeks

Cuddy places her hands lightly at his temples; he flinches sharply, but she'd expected that, so she keeps her fingers stilled until she feels the pulses beneath them slow again. As her fingers make soothing circles, she begins to speak. Her voice is calming, almost hypnotic; "You're riding down a deserted country road on your motorcycle. It's a warm fall day, and the nip of cold in the breeze feels wonderful on your skin. Someone's burning leaves somewhere; you can smell the sharp scent of the smoke in the air. You're enjoying the foliage on the trees. There's warm gold, and brilliant red, and umber, and they're the most vivid colors you've ever seen…."

She continues to speak softly as she gently works her hands down his body, feeling the tension slowly, almost grudgingly, ease out of him. When she lowers the sheet away from his legs, his eyes open anxiously. "Cuddy…." he whispers, and it sounds tortured. Although he's wearing an old pair of scrubs, the material is thin; the twisted, angry scar, the awful, empty valley are clearly outlined.

Cuddy smiles gently down at him and whispers back, "Sorry, can't hear you over the roar of the bike." Then she watches, just watches him. She sees the conflict in the lines of his face; if she'd seen a refusal, she'd have stopped. But the conflict means part of him wants the contact, needs this tangible caring. She stays completely still, and waits; it reminds her of trying not to frighten a wounded wild animal in need of aid.

Finally, and purely on instinct, she communicates kindly, with her eyes, that she's not asking permission to touch his right leg; she's going to do it, and he's simply going to have to trust her. Her instinct is correct; he seems relieved that he doesn't have to make the decision, closes his eyes and relaxes again.

You're good, Cuddy. I'd have had to say no; it's… expected. Not so sure I wanted to say no. He takes a deep breath, tries not to think at all. He concentrates hard on the pictures Cuddy's words are drawing.

"You see an apple orchard, almost hidden from the road, and you steer the bike easily onto a small footpath. When you cut the engine, the world is silent; there's a sense of peace all around you. You take an apple from the tree, and just hold it in your palm for a moment, feeling the warmth of the sun it's absorbed. When you bite into it, it's crisp and sharp and fragrant. The juice in your mouth is the sweetest thing you've ever tasted…."

As she speaks, she's working the muscles of the wasted thigh with fingers now feather-light, now firm and warm. House continues to breathe deeply, evenly; the lines of his face have smoothed out. When she cues him with her hands to turn over, he does so without opening his eyes.

"You lie down under the tree, the scents of the earth and the fruit filling the air. The heat of the earth penetrates your skin and cradles you like a warm blanket. You watch the clouds float by slowly; the sky's such a deep blue that you feel beckoned by it; you're floating with the clouds and you're calm and free, and safe…."

Cuddy allows her voice to trail off as she finishes; she feels his leg move slightly under her hand. She decides to take another chance, and says softly, "The lighting's better in here. Let me get my paperwork."

When she returns, she angles the reading light on the other side of the bed so that it won't disturb House. She props herself on a pillow and 'accidentally' hooks her foot across his ankle, leaves it there. "You've still got the two weeks," she whispers.

After just a few seconds, she hears him sigh deeply, and the next breath he takes starts the regular rhythm of peaceful sleep. She doesn't move the rest of the night. Neither does House.