Pictures at an Exhibition

Chapter 11

The quadriceps muscle is actually a group of four distinct muscles that work in tandem to enable a person to lift, walk, climb, and move with ease in different directions. For House, the irreparably damaged quadriceps muscles of his right leg were merely his "scarlet letter."

House's quadriceps only served to brand him as "different." And although even if he had possessed a perfectly healthy and intact quad, House would not be "a normal guy;" he could at least pretend to fit in—when he chose to; when he needed to. Before the infarction destroyed a large section of his quad, House could run; golf, play tennis, enjoy paintball and Frisbee, all the things that allowed him to pretend to "normal;" to escape the persistent racing of his mind, to put him and the people around him on a level field.

And for that moment, seemingly so long ago, but in reality less than a year past, House tasted what it might be like again…if only. But that moment was but a brief few weeks. He willed himself to not let anyone see the devastation left behind by that folly, so he had worked extra hard to gird himself. He pretended that it didn't matter; refused to discuss it altogether. He increased the distance at which he held everybody, which wasn't difficult: his own anger and bitterness directed towards himself; at life in general and at anyone who dared offer not-so-helpful advice created a natural and effective barrier. To all eyes, House had simply become a bigger bastard, and that was fine with him. So how had he gotten to this point: Cuddy sitting beside him on the floor, so near; allowing himself to feel; allowing her to touch him; to get to him.

When Cuddy moved her hands from his boniness of his knee to the area just above, she could feel his entire body tense beneath her touch. She stopped. House's eyes had been closed as she worked his leg; caressed his leg. Now his eyes were open and he was regarding her warily.

The few times he had let anyone touch that area had been only out of medical necessity. The hands that had examined and prodded had possessed a clinical detachment that allowed House to simply ignore the intrusion. But this was Cuddy. And her own hands, although they had poked and prodded their way up his lower leg had also caressed and stroked; and suddenly this did not seem quite as good an idea as when had first claimed her queen.

She had seen it before, he knew. After the surgery when she had told him that the incision "seemed to be healing nicely;" her eyes, not knowing quite where to look, telling the real truth with their tearful sorrow. And then she had seen it again, oh so many years removed from his hospital bed, yet still in agony from the pain he predicted would turn chronic; knew would be intractable; knew he was better off not living at all than living with it. He was begging her then; decorum between them stripped away along with his trousers—making her look; making her see just how nicely it all healed. Knowing it would hurt her to see, but needing her to see, to be reminded in no uncertain terms, that his problem was not in his head, but in his leg. To not be believed, to be forced in to proving it again and again, he reckoned was almost worse than the pain itself. "I need you to give me a shot of morphine in my spine," he had requested reasonably before her angry tirade began and he dropped all pretense of dignity before her. And she had given him saline; and it had helped. Placebos are a powerful antidote when you want to believe. When you need to believe. He had wanted to die as she revealed her truth to him, pity in her eyes, leaving him standing gape-jawed and pathetic in her office as she went off for morning rounds.

"Do you want me to stop?" House was far away as Cuddy paused at his knee. "House?" She got up from her position on the floor, sitting on the edge of sofa near his elbow. "House? You OK?" House emerged from his thoughts, finally hearing Cuddy's voice, almost surprised to hear it so near his ear.

"We should get back to our game." Cuddy was slightly unnerved at the sudden mood shift.

"No way. I didn't finish my task. In ten minutes you'll call 'foul' and tell me I cheated on your prize—then demand a full body massage or something. So forget it, House!" She smiled cagily, kept her voice light, despite her concern. He peered at her, telegraphing apprehension and wariness. She understood that he wasn't up to some roguish game here; that he was having second thoughts. "House," she asserted finally, sighing sadly "I have seen a scarred leg before. I've seen your scars before. I don't know…"

"Please, Cuddy, don't. I can't… I…" He placed his hands on top of hers, preventing her from continuing. Cuddy rose from her position and disappeared into his bedroom. She re-appeared a moment later folding a soft, brown merino wool blanket. House was in the same position, his forearm draped across his eyes. Cuddy was slightly surprised that he hadn't used her absence to sit up and resume his stance at the chessboard. She resumed her position back on the floor, draping the blanket over House's waist and thighs, putting both hands on his arm. He had missed the warmth of her hands, craved them, but he couldn't do this.

"House, you need this; you've earned it, anyway, by taking my queen. I promise I'll be gentle. I promise."

"That's not it."

"Then what?"

"No one has…"

"Let me know if I'm hurting you," she offered, full-on doctor mode, ignoring his protest. Cuddy felt House's entire leg stiffen as she touched him lightly above the knee. She let her hands linger there beneath the blanket, her touch firming on his leg, allowing him to become accustomed to her.

House felt the warmth of her resting hands, trying to relax into them; to not care that she would recoil as soon as she encountered the deformed area. Cuddy sensed his effort to relax as he breathed deeply several times, patiently waiting him out: neither releasing him or proceeding before he was ready. Several minutes passed before either of them moved or spoke as Cuddy observed House, whose eyes were closed now closed. He seemed more relaxed now and had she not been able to feel the tension still coursing through him, she would have sworn he was asleep.

Cuddy sighed deeply. This was the man who everyone saw as the bastard's bastard. And, to be honest, so did she, more often than she would have liked to admit. And he was—too often; especially with a ratcheting up in his pain levels. More than the usual amount of stress tended to bring House's less attractive traits into high relief as well. But Cuddy also saw in him someone who, despite his assertions to the contrary, was a decent man; who would fight tooth and nail for his patients, often at professional and personal risk to himself. He hated the hypocrisy that he saw in the practice of medicine--where doctors worked in their patients best interests only until they came into conflict with their own, or their hospital's, or their insurance company's. It was that attitude for which House reserved his most poisonous wrath.

House nodded his head slightly, almost imperceptibly; and Cuddy moved her hands slightly up on his leg. This time he didn't tense at the movement, but remained still; waiting. She scooched up to gain better access under the blanket as she firmly prodded the edges of the scar with the palm of her hand, careful to avoid the sort of touch that might trigger a flash of nerve pain. She suppressed the catch of her breath as she reached the center of the deeply uneven surface of his thigh, refusing to let on in any way that she had even noticed a change in the pattern of his skin. "You doing OK, House? Let me know if feel anything other than 'good.'"

"Yeah, fine," he rasped, willing himself calm, and, to his surprise, succeeding. He let himself believe that it would be OK, that she was a doctor—his doctor as she kneaded the tight muscles surrounding the damaged area, carefully watching his face for signs that he was in pain.

Cuddy moved yet closer as she massaged, so that her body was even with his knee, firmly stroking the outside of his leg from the knee to the hip with her right hand as her left worked the remaining muscle of the damaged area and his inner thigh. House sighed as he felt the pressure increase and subside, causing sensations of pleasure to course through every nerve ending in his body. House perceived a very slight change in the way Cuddy was manipulating his leg. Her strokes were becoming more languorous and less precise; he thought for a brief second that she had scraped her nails gently across the junction between his leg and his pelvis. But it was too brief to be certain, and, in any event, surely a momentary lapse on her part. And then it happened again, as her hands approached the area just below his groin twice more, sending signals right to the pleasure center of his brain.

And then he experienced something new as she kneaded, stroked and prodded his scarred leg: the unmistakable pressure of Cuddy's moist lips. House gasped. He was lost to the chaos of sensation, aroused and intrigued.

"Cuddy," he pleaded. She stopped, looking up at him, suddenly embarrassed. It was the last thing he had wanted—for her to stop.

"I'm sorry, I… Did I hurt you? I must've…I'm…"

"No. I…" Their eyes caught and held, each looking for permission that had already been more than granted. House pulled Cuddy up to the sofa from where she had been seated, sending the chess set tumbling, forgotten, to the floor.