Cuddy opened her eyes and blinked at the milky sunlight filtering through the curtains. Tree branches cast their crooked shadows all the while gently swaying in the breeze. Morning again, that was hardly a newsworthy event, so what was tugging at the back of her mind? Her still bleary eyes happened on the night table. The glass of water sat untouched beside the alarm clock. She looked over to see Gregory House slumbering away on his back with his head listing toward her, one arm curled up and resting on his chest.
Watching him sleep was her simple pleasure, a guilty pleasure, a time she shamelessly reveled in whenever it presented itself in one or the other's bed. She settled on her side, propped up on her elbow, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest and listening to his muted breathing. No bad dreams, no waking up terrified in the middle of the night, just fast asleep under her pale yellow sheets. These tranquil moments in the day, far and few between, she couldn't get enough of them.
Carefully, she edged a bit closer and lightly stroked the hair along his temple, running her thumb down his cheek where his beard scratched at her skin like a cats tongue. Not pushing her hand away. Another fleeting minute or two she relished.
His hand wrapped around her wrist before she knew what was happening, his blue eyes opened, meeting her own.
"What are you doing, Lisa?" he muttered thickly into the room now filling with the sunlight from a promised beautiful day.
"Watching you," she answered, not knowing what else to say, a bit angry that she woke him up. She dimly wondered if he could her heart pounding in her chest. Caught off guard, her heart raced a mile a minute.
"Watching me?" he puzzled, clearly not expecting that statement.
"Yes, I was watching you. So what?"
"You were touching me."
"So?"
"What for?"
"Because I wanted to," she said, seeing no need to lie to him at the moment. He would see right through it anyway.
"See anything interesting while you were watching and touching me?" he asked with a tiny grin and let go of her wrist. His gaze shifted for a few seconds to the fluttering curtains, then returned to his lover. Her long dark curls fell over Jim Morrison.
"A man getting some much needed sleep."
"Is that all?" He seemed privately amused. "Is a sleeping man really that fascinating?"
"Andy Warhol thought so."
"We're a million miles away from being asexual pop artists. Tell me what else you saw."
"Greg House undisturbed by his nightmare." Her hand came back up and brushed his temple. He closed his eyes for a moment in appreciation, then pushed the covers back and sat up. "You seem relieved, more relieved than me," he said.
"I'm not going to argue with that," she told him.
"Even if I told you I did dream that little dream last night?"
Cuddy frowned. "You did? But how–"
"Those quacks are on to something with that whole lucid dreaming thing. Now there's something I thought I'd never have to admit," House said with a quiet chuckle.
"Why didn't you wake up screaming bloody murder?" Now she was puzzled over how he could be in a relatively good mood if what he was telling her was even halfway true.
"It wasn't a nightmare, it was just a dream."
"You were able to control it?" she gasped.
"More or less. I had a little conversation with you." He turned to her, his expression tired and blank. Later she would punish herself for waking him up, but for now she was fascinated with what she was hearing.
"Well...um, Greg, what did I say?"
"That I already have the answer. All I have to do is look."
"Have you looked?"
"No. I don't have to look for what's right in front of me."
"What's the answer? Tell me."
"The answer doesn't matter," he said and smiled. "What matters is that I don't have to worry about it anymore."
