First fic, never tried this before. Inspired by this fabulous series and reading so much great fic. Pretty insubstantial and short, but needed to start somewhere.

So long and thanks for…..


Status: Work in progress
Type: Gen
Rating: Mature- Adult themes, strong language
Category: Mostly angst
Warnings: Strong language
Spoilers: First season
Summary: Three weeks after House is discharged from PPTH, post infarction.
Disclaimers: House belongs to David Shore, Fox and people with more talent than me. Title belongs to the late, great, Douglas Adams.




Chapter One

Feel like a chain store,
Practically floored

- Blur, “Coffee and TV”


It was one of those surround sound heat days, just pull all the blinds, crank up the air con and do the minimum. Minimum had changed these days, House cranked his head a little further back as he strained at the screen. He’d been lying on the floor for the last hour, head at the base of the tv unit, legs propped on the coffee table, jabbing at the game control as he attempted the third level of Sonic Triple Trouble. He’d completed this new game hours ago and to alleviate the boredom he was trying to do it again while looking up at the game from below the screen. Failing on his previous two attempts, he’d now figured out the whole left to right thing and was making progress.


Since the return from hospital, he’d been pretty much camped out in the den. Always preferred it to the lounge room, comfier couches and the tv was way better. After weeks without any respite from the endless entourage of doctors, nurses, physios, he’d been ready for it. Long stretches of quiet, no interruptions, no checks, no tense faces. Stacy had been nervous about heading back to work, but he practically begged her. They were close to fighting over it.
She’d insisted that he rushed PT, not paid enough attention to their advise. She was worried, he would try too much, wouldn’t try enough.

She was fucking worried.

She, yeah, she.

That was what it had all been about for her, and everything about her reminded him. Wanting to yell back at her, but knowing if he started he may never stop.

It was all way too much, way too messed up, distorted, bent beyond process, playing like white noise if he let himself feel.

So he’d buried himself in the den. Spent days lying on the couch, watching hours of reruns, the Bond marathon for the third time through on TNT. Playing Mortal Kombat until the ache in his hands just about beat the other pain into a photo finish. Grabbing a few hours sleep at the blissful peak of a just taken pill.

Sleep. Just thinking about collapsing into their bed had kept him going during the long, blank stillness of night after night on the ward. Moving without wires and bedrails, feeling soft, cool cotton against his skin, not the starchy scratch of too thick blankets. Feeling her. Fitful half-dreams of falling asleep in the dark, no brittle fluorescent night light imprinting its glow as he closed his eyes. Waking to natural light, stretching beyond himself to a gentle warmth.

Of her. Her body.

After the longest wait he could remember, that first night at home, back where he belonged, expectation had collapsed under reality.

Wow, Benj, wow. The detail in this is what gets me. House sprawled out on the floor, wedged between a couch and the coffee table, playing video games: perfect. The desire to be home again with comfortable sheets and peace and quiet... And I love, love, LOVE the way you treated Stacy in this bit. The way you have House think about her, "Of her. Her body." is so telling and so accurate. But of course he has mixed feelings and you bring that out well. This I especially love:

Captures his anger and his unwillingness to open himself up again emotionally perfectly. Damn. Da-amn.

And then I adore the ending:

Because, yeah. Yeah. How could anything ever be right about them again? It's just...wow. Very well done. Welcome to ficland.

Looking forward to more, especially because you could take this in so many directions and I can't tell which one you'd pick, so it'll be a surprise. I love surprises.

Cheers,
Sy

Very cool so far. I hope you'll be doing more, otherwise this was just a frustrating little tease of potential story.


Seems to me there's a possibility for a lot of filler stories for House's past, since I expect we'll get the official word only in dribs and drabs. And if they come up with something that doesn't fit? Who cares. Call it AU and keep going.

Just quick though:

I believe you want advice there, with a C.

Why is it that British and American spellings differ? The 'c' or 'z' instead of an 's', subtracting a 'u' as in 'advi(s)ce,' 'advertis(z)e,' and 'colo(u)r'. And there's the whole single 'quotations' vs. double "quotations" thing and then that weird whatsits the French use which isn't even on my keyboard (the 'raquo' I think it's called in HTML: »). Who knows. Bet the history there is interesting, how Americans came to alter the spelling of certain words and other points of style...stubborn yankee something something probably...crap, now I'm gonna have to look into this out of curiosity.

Anyway, not a mispelling. Just a cultural difference.

(That was pedantic. Sorry. I'm a language/style geek.)

(...wrong about 'raquo' - that's Danish; French use the 'guillemet'. Yeah, actually looked this one up. Such a geek, really, such a geek.)

Great work, Benj. Very nice fic debut. The small details are great, and really give the piece a claustrophobic feel. (I'm pretty sure this is what you were going for, given the oppressive heat threatening from just outside and the limited mobility shrinking his house down to one room.)

"She, yeah, she." Love it. Sums it all up. Well done.

And lets not forget the Canadians. I live in a border town, where some people drive back and forth across the river for work and home, and need to carry currency from two countries at any given time.

Which has nothing to do with the story. Sorry, Benj, but I'm still digging it, if that helps.

Benj,
I like it. Good imagery. It's a good question, isn't it, what would happen post coma?
Given the deliberately non-confrontational first meeting of House and Stacy at the begining of Three Stories, a complete and total meltdown of their relationship with fireworks, while possible, doesn't seem very likely.
Your story fits very well with my thinking.
Thanks for sharing
Luna

Much grateful for the feedback, it’s a big help and very much appreciated . Spelling debate is really interesting, forget how many much-used words it applies too. Its not my strongest suit, but I will ensure I’m consistent, cheers for the heads up on “advice” Sy!

Trying to keep this as American as I can, no taps, pavements or felt pens, but if I stuff anything up I apologise. Reminds of when I first met my South African mate- he referred to roundabouts as traffic circles, traffic lights as robots and I had no idea what he was talking about. It made for some interesting car rides.

I’m going for canon as far as is possible, but I’m fairly certain House knew Wilson for a decent length of time pre-infarction although it hasn’t been explicitly stated.

Cheers

Benj




Chapter Two

Then thank God that I’m as good as dead
Then thank your God that I’m not aware
And thank God that I just don’t care
And I guess I just don’t know
And I guess I just don’t know

Heroin- Velvet Underground


Stacy pulled into the parking lot, cursing mugginess and the stupidity of road maintenance companies who chose the hottest time of year to dig up the town.

Opening the trunk she lifted out two bags of groceries, damp with condensation from no longer frozen yoghurt. Choosing a top floor apartment had seemed a great idea, two years ago. Six long weeks of pushy realtors and six even longer weeks of Greg extracting every last ounce of joy from toying with them, before they found this place.

High ceilings, dark wood floors and a pewter framed fireplace swung it for her. For House it had been the lack of neighbours, afforded by the commercial use of the rest of the building, to complain at his choice of late night listening. Dropping the needle on Blue Öyster Cult’s ‘Fire of Unknown Origin’ for the fifth time in succession had caused the standoff with their previous neighbour to explode in spectacular fashion. Achieving even a vaguely peaceful resolution had tested Stacy’s considerable negotiating skills to the limit.

Amongst an endless stream of concerns she had about House returning from hospital, the unsuitableness of their apartment had been a recurring theme. The elevator had too many unreliable moments and the number of stairs didn’t make for a viable alternative. Just thinking about it had literally forced home the magnitude of potential problems they faced. Amidst the purgatory of the first days after Greg’s infarction she’d have given anything to be making easy calls over their living arrangements. Just living would have been enough for her, living together had seemed a distant far fetched hope.

Bags growing heavier in her arms, she looked up to the shuttered windows of their apartment. Reticence wasn’t her style, least of all where Greg was concerned, but she couldn’t ignore the dead weight of unease knotting inside her. She felt angry at the part of her that had wanted to go back to work, to escape to the easy. But leaving him each day meant coming back and that wasn’t any less hard.

Wrestling keys from her purse she let herself into the apartment and dumped the bags on the counter. Two empty packets of Kool-Aid and a half-eaten cheeseburger on the kitchen table suggested House hadn’t starved. She smiled at the pile of carefully extracted pickles he’d piled on the edge of his plate. House had always bought his own “nuke it before you puke it” meals and she’d picked the wrong brand of burger. She’d expected, hoped for, at least seem half-heated gripe about lack of sensitivity to your lover’s fast food preferences, but he’d just let it go.


Engrossed in the pursuit of a final gold ring to take the next level with maximum bonus points, House didn’t look up as Stacy entered the den. Moving to the window she raised the blinds.

Pausing the game, he stared up at her, shielding his eyes behind his arm

“Hey, don’t let all the heat in, you’ll mess with my concentration. Very important moment here, the great escape is on. Knocked this over in an hour-twenty dead” He motioned at her with an empty games box.

“People need air and light” Stacy ignored his protest, “and so do the fish”

“Didn’t want them, don’t care." House replied "Besides their supposed to be tropical, hotter the better.”

The fish had been her idea, they’d belonged to a friend who took a job out of town and needed a long term fish sitter. House whined at first about the hassle of cleaning the tank, remembering to feed them and their general lack of activity. Attending a week long conference in Washington had entailed leaving them to his care. She’d fully expected to return and find they’d met a predictable end. But House had surprised her, seizing the opportunity to spice things up the tank adding a plastic castle, a sunken ship and some dark coral. He also introduced two new fish, a black Mollie and a golden Gouramis, he named Jughead and Archie. Within days they’d shattered the tranquillity of the tank, fighting with each other and generally tearing up the neighbourhood, as House put it. Making bets with Wilson over Jughead’s culling prowess provided him with much entertainment and he’d been unable to disguise his delight when her friend asked to make the arrangement permanent.

House lay back down and turned his attention back to the screen. Shifting his right leg to a more comfortable position, he resumed the game.

“Jeff and Linda are in town over the weekend .” Stacy spoke tentatively, but he didn’t respond. “Thought we could try the new Vietnamese place, its supposed to be good and they have a table for Saturday.

“Objection” House said without looking up. “Crucial game, Saturday. Rhein Fire have it all to do to make the World Bowl final ahead of the in-form Galaxy‘s. Tricky test, seasoned pros are calling it a dead heat”. he informed her.

“If you don’t want to go, I can make dinner here.” Stacey offered “Be good to catch up, its been a while”

“No, you go“ . House countered “ say Hi for me.”

“They want to see you too, Jeff called to check how you’re doing” assured Stacey.

“He phoned to check on you.” House said cooly “ And they’re coming here to see you. Have dinner with them. I’ll be fine, beer and NFL Europe, Saturday night’s all-action fest.”

Stacy contemplated a comeback, but resisted. He knew as well as she did that his blood thinner medication prohibited alcohol. Although he wouldn’t need them forever, the doctor insisted he take them for a least three months while he recovered and the risk of further clots remained high. But he also knew she wouldn’t challenge him. Since he’d been home, they hadn’t argued. Contentious issues had been avoided at all costs. Leaving the topic for a while would be the only forward. Resigned, she left him to his game and headed to the kitchen to start on dinner.

Still digging it, and I've wondered about the blood thinner issue. Seems he must have been on it at some time.

Just a couple of quick notes, though -- and mind you, love what you're doing, just thought I'd mention. (And hey, I may be taking new work as a copy editor. Gotta practice sometime.)

First off, I've never seen Kool-Aid in bottles. But then I don't have young kids. Maybe they have them in bottles now?

And there's a comma issue here:

It reads that the Mollie has two names. You either need to separate Jughead and Archie with another comma, or perhaps try a variation on ... two new fish he'd named Jughead and Archie, a black Mollie and golden Gouramis ... or ... he'd introduced two new fish, a black Mollie and golden Gouramis, which he'd named Jughead and Archie.

Namaste- Cheers for the help- much apreciated.

Made the changes. Love sweet stuff and remembered being given Kool-Aid by an American au pair as a kid. It was made up when she gave it to us and I thought she had bottles of it stashed in her room. But as its sold in powder form that makes total sense, would have been hugely expensive to have it posted in bottles from the US. You've solved one of life's mysteries for me- thank you!

Chapter Two (cont’d)

Hearing her heels as she disappeared to the kitchen, House threw the game control at the couch. Damn her. He’d been feeling okay. Well, as okay as it got now. Absorbed in the game, he’d lost track of time for a while. Time for a pill.

He started to get up when a shot of pain gripped his right leg, he’d moved too quickly. Damn leg, it had stiffened while he played and he’d moved too quickly. Not too quickly for the rest of his body, but for his stupid, fucked up leg. Lying back, he breathed heavily, riding out the wave of pain. His whole body hostage to one limb. No matter how strong the rest of him was, he could only be what it allowed.

Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out his pill bottle. Considering for a moment waiting until he could move and find something to wash it down. Feeling the stab of pain in his leg, he dismissed the thought and swallowed it in one. Vicodin. Just about the only thing, which had touched the pain and left him able to think straight. During rehab, they’d talked about various meds. Made him try a couple of alternatives, easier on his liver had been the line they used. Really hard on everything else he’d thought. Made him drowsy or fuzzed up his brain. No way was he loosing the power to think normally, as well as loosing the power to walk normally. He’d argued his point with his doctor and they settled on a ‘limited period’ prescription. Just six months while he adjusted. “Adjusted to what?” he’d felt like saying, but knew it wouldn’t make a difference and quit while he was ahead. Nothing was going to change in six months, not in six years, not ever.

Motionless, mind focused on breathing, he felt the pain subside to its default setting, a dull ache. Gingerly lifting his right leg and swivelling as best he could, he shuffled toward the couch. Grabbing the arm frame for support, he pushed as hard as he could on his left leg and struggled onto it. The effort exhausted him. Sweat beading on his forehead, he cursed the close heat. His clothes felt glued to his body, he’d lived in sweatpants since he got home. Comfortable, but a nightmare in the heat.

Waking into a day which promised unrelenting heat, he‘d thought about shorts. He’d waited until Stacy left for work and rummaged in his closet, finding several pairs. But when it came to it, he just couldn‘t face seeing his leg. Wasted, lifeless tissue held in place with a scar. In hospital he hadn’t been self-conscious, people expect to see sick people to stuffed with tubes, looking like shit, with nasty scars. Sure, it was embarrassing to have a conversation while a bag collected your pee, but that’s what happens in hospitals. It had never made him uncomfortable to visit patients hooked up to machines and unable to control their bodily functions; it was all part of the deal. Payback with this deal, for bearing the humiliation, was either recovery and a feeling of gratitude which made the humiliation seem a distant memory, or dying.

Recovery he’d been able to deal with. Hating the hours of physical therapy and the constant backdrop of pain had been bearable, just about. It had been hard, but he’d expected it to be, he’d known it would hurt, it would be frustrating beyond anything he’d known. Pushing had given him purpose; he’d listened to the prognosis when they told him there would be limits. He was a doctor, he knew the drill with false hope, but he kept on. It was everything he was all about, doing the math, forcing his reason beyond the point other doctors stopped, believing in a solution when patients had given in. Then it hit him.

No sledge- hammer to the brain or sucker punch to his gut, just a slow, quiet, almost gentle evolution to realisation. Without drama or emotion, it slipped under his skin and he felt its truth course through his veins and settle in his mind. This was it. He wasn’t going to walk again. Sure, he’d move with a cane, manage to get around, function. Nothing more. No running after work in the rain, pounding the streets after a fight, no leaping high into the stand during football games. He wouldn’t ever force Wilson to a tiebreak after he’d been beaten fair and square or sell him the perfect dummy playing Saturday football. Stacy. Skiing off-piste when they took a trip to Nevada, carrying her on his back to their bedroom after a fight. Never going to happen again. Frustration and anger dissipated into nothing. He didn‘t feel anything. Nothing left to feel anything about, no improvements to hope for or setbacks to curse. Just the numb nothingness he was feeling now.

Skin cooling slightly, he realised he needed to pee and looked round for his cane. Where the hell was it? Even after using it for nearly a month, he still couldn’t get used to remembering it. Always so keen to let it go, he rarely noticed where it fell. Casting his eyes across the room, he saw it beside the coffee table. Within reaching distance. He grabbed it and sat up carefully. This couch was another reason he preferred the den. It wasn’t too soft and he could lever himself out of it with relative ease. The ache in his leg intensified, complaining at the partial weight placed on it. , walking like he was taking part in the three-legged race at school. .

Stacey was resting against the counter when he reached the kitchen, staring into space. She heard the soft thud of his cane and watched as he winced toward her. .

“Pasta or fish” she asked looking up at him.

“Nothing, I’m okay. Had two burgers and I’m watching my weight” he’d intended more sarcasm but it came out lighter.

She looked pale. Somewhere inside he felt a tinge of guilt. He knew she’d been through it too, but it wasn’t his fault. She didn’t need to stick around. He’d told her that in hospital, she’d done her job. Signed the papers, saved his life, and could move on to the next one. “Life-savers are in short supply” he’d quipped. “Especially ones with nice legs who love the beach. Red suit will look really cute on you; always been a big fan.” The flash of anger in her eyes had evaporated quickly and he knew how close she’d been to tears. He’d felt pleased. Watching her fight to keep control. Knew how that felt and now she was feeling it. Some part of him felt sad; he’d always hated seeing her cry. But most of him was pleased. How fucked up was that?

“Not too hungry either, cheese and crackers to share?” She smiled “I’ll let you pick the movie, but no Bond. We’re not watching ‘The man with the Golden Thumb again’ ”

“Deal.” He said and hobbled off to the bathroom. Didn’t change anything, but the smile, it hadn’t been around for a long while. Too long and the weights in his head could wait, he just wanted to be, be with her for a while.

Ouch, ouch, ouch. The pain, the anger--spot-on. This fic definitely gives me insight into how House became so bitter.

Many lines I could pick, but I think this one does it right off and really well:

"No matter how strong the rest of him was, he could only be what it allowed."

Yes. Yes yes yes.

And in the chapter before this most recent one, the fish are awesome. I can so see House and Wilson taking bets on fish fights. Jughead and Archie--mwah! Perfect.

And cheers for a mention of NFL Europe, which I've only just become aware of (American-style football in the summer? have I died and gone to heaven?). Damn my cable service for not being close to picking the games up despite my having three channels of ESPN. Watching them on the computer just isn't quite the same... Now I'm jealous of House. *jealous*

But back to the fic. House not wanting to leave the apartment is also dead-on. And I love what you've done with the atmosphere: the oppressive heat of summer in the city and the noise (and for me, the smell) of street repair. The heat's presence in this fic reminds me of The Plauge where weather is elevated to the level of being a character itself. The details make this piece great.

And Kool Aide...yup, comes in packets. Two packets = a lot of Kool Aide.

Also House getting up at the end of the most recent chapter...just excruciating. And this:

"She didn’t need to stick around. He’d told her that in hospital, she’d done her job. Signed the papers, saved his life, and could move on to the next one."

Ouch. Ouch, man, ouch. But damn good. Keep it coming!

Sy- cheers! Gotten quite into NFL Europe, its on our Sky Sports package here. Another reason to love summer, as well as Rugby League which they switched to this time of year.

On a fic note- I’ve kind of borrowed your ‘Wilson has a dog’ idea here, hope you don’t mind. Its just a very fleeting cameo and you can have him back- he does stuff on the floor.

Just an addition to the content warning - mild (ish) sex reference in this chapter.


Chapter Three

The first one will do
I'm just passing through
The second one needs more
I've been here before
I've been here before
I've been here before

“Bubbles” - Tricky/Terry Hall


Night had fallen, but the temperature hadn’t and the promised rain seemed a long way off. Sitting in the relative cool of the den, Graham crackers piled high in a bowl between them on the couch. They were the honey variety, which House loved. Loading them with cream cheese, he could eat them faster than he could put them together. Stacy had been sceptical about the combination at first, but he pleaded with her to try it out. Resistance had proved useless and he’d finally persuaded by wedging half a cracker in his mouth and refusing to eat it until she took the rest. Pretty good, in a weird way, she’d been sold on them ever since. House flipped the remote through the channels, settling on ‘Extreme Sport Re-runs’.

“I thought you hated snow boarding? Pretentious rich kids with bad hair,” Stacy reminded House. ‘Punks with no idea what punk is’ you said”

“Changed my mind, I like it now.” House explained. “They showed a tree run event from Sweden last week. Kids crashing into fir trees all the time. Beats ‘World’s Worst Wipe-outs Ever’ out of sight.”

“You’d better not tell Wilson.” Stacy warned him. “He spent a lot of time looking out that dvd for you.”

“He’ll be fine. Forget all about it when he sees this” House said dismissively, “Be great for a wager too, no way to know who’ll make it.”

“Blond kids seem to do better and the more stupidly neon the jacket, the quicker they fall, but there‘s no real form.” he advised her.

Stacy watched him more than she listened. His face looked more animated than she’d seen in a while, deep lines etching his forehead seeming to lessen.

“Not eating your share?” House enquired.

“Keeping down the crumb count.” she said.

He stuffed another cracker into his mouth. “Who’s counting?”

“Marie. You haven’t let her in here to clean for two weeks. The crumbs are turning into a beach.” Stacy pointed to the floor. “If your planning on the whole “Brian Wilson sand pit in the lounge room” look, let me know. We’ll get the piano moved in too.”

“Hmm…like your thinking. Maybe I can get Wilson over here with his dog.” House mused, “Think I’d look cute in a fire hat?” He raised an eyebrow.

Stacy grinned at him. For the first time, since he’d got home if she was honest, she was feeling somewhere nearing relaxed. If she was really honest, it had been like shadow boxing. He avoided her by spending his waking hours in the den and in the last week, nights too. Sleeping was a problem for him, she knew that. He’d refused the sleep meds the rehab doctor had suggested and wasn’t getting more than a couple of hours at a time. Sitting up playing computer games or watching endless tv until he couldn’t keep his eyes open. His decision to leave their bed hurt. She understood that he didn’t want to disturb her sleep to and found it difficult to get comfortable without waking her. No matter how hard he tried to move silently it was disruptive to have him getting in and out of bed every few hours. She’d insisted she could get used to it; it was just a bigger version of getting used to sharing a bed in the first place. Where were they if they couldn’t even sleep together?

It was part of the reason she’d moved in with him so soon after they met. He wasn’t big on tactile gestures, although they’d had sex pretty much morning, noon and night that first week. It was a way to be close to him. He’d talk to her, not just banter, opening up a little. Listening to her too, not just thinking through his own thoughts. Over the time they’d been together, they’d had their best and their worst times in bed. More than just sex, but all the things that come together to be love. Big fights over major stuff, sulks over the little, holding her in silence when her father died, making out for hours when she’d won an argument in a big case. Moving out to the den to fill the gaps in time while he recovered was one thing, but now it had stretched into sleeping there too, it was something else altogether. It scared her. She knew it wasn’t just the leg or sleep problems, he was avoiding her and in many ways himself. Avoiding the gulf between what he thought she’d done to him and what she knew she’d done for him. In some kind of messed up way, staying away from it and from each other, was keeping them together.

There had been times, in the bleakness of his hospital room; she thought she would never see him again. First, when he’d insisted that they bypass the blockage in his leg. She’d thought then she’d loose him for sure, awash with pain, but still adamant he knew best. Then she’d known, signing the consent forms for the “middle ground” surgery, that they wouldn’t have a middle ground. She waited for it to come, the explosion, the hate. Knowing he’d be weak from surgery and the battery of drugs, she hadn’t expected it to come right away. It never arrived. He was just quiet, nothing. Only one time, after his first day of PT, he’d lashed out. Even then, it was just bitter sarcasm, nothing she could fight. Not while he lay there, exhausted and vulnerable.

House polished off the last cracker. Brushing his hands over the floor, he lifted out his t-shirt and shook off the remaining crumbs. Taking the bowl and placing it on the table, Stacy moved in closer to him, slipping her hand below his shirt.

Feeling her softness against his skin, he breathed in hard, it had been a long time. Felt so good, being close to her. His heartbeat rising imperceptibly, it always did when she got close to him. She slid further toward him and he pulled her in, arm moving from the back of the couch to rest on her thigh. Still wearing her suit, skirt riding up as she curled in. He loved the way she dressed for work, just a perfect mix of beauty and authority. Kept herself fit, gym after work was a regular fixture. Reaching across him, she took the remote from his hand and turned off the tv. Warm hand tracing lightly against his stomach, delicate fingers teasing his skin, he tilted his head to meet her gaze. Something different in her eyes, desire but something else, need.

He needed too, to hold her, press against her, watch her face as he moved inside her, and feel her push against him as …..No.

“Need to stretch” he moved her hand quickly and placed his foot on the floor. House lifted his right leg awkwardly and reached out for his cane.

“Did I hurt you?” Stacy straightened, looking confused.

“No, it’s just….House stumbled to explain, “Sitting is a bitch, tightens up. I’ll try a shower. It’s so damn hot, doesn’t help”

Pushing on the cane, he lifted himself off the couch. Blood and thought rushing in his head, he moved for the hallway as quickly as he could.

“I’ll come too.” she offered “We can try that shower gel I picked up last week, its supposed to be good for tense muscles”

House stopped but didn’t turn back to her “Not a good plan” He replied sharply. “That stuff has oil in it, makes the tiles slippy”

“Okay” Stacy accepted, trying not to look downbeat, “Well, at least come and lie on the bed when your done, I’ll rub in some menthol gel, might help a bit”

“It takes me a while” House countered “You’ll probably be asleep”

“It’s not that late” She said gently.

“Shower should work, it‘ll be fine” He didn’t give her a chance to reply as he made his way through the kitchen.

Picking up the empty bowl she moved to the window. Staring into the half-light, she closed the blinds against the dark and heat.

This is really great. It feels real. You've done very well with the times that House and Stacy *aren't* snarky. Obviously there can't be snark 24/7, and you've found a tone for them that seems right.

(Small editing note: in the second installment, and especially the third, you need to put a 'the' in front of 'hospital' if you are going for American english, which I believe you are.)

All in all, wonderful. Keep it up!

Rough. She's doing her best and...just...nothing. I really, really like your Stacy. I can see it, too. Of course this is how it would be. You write them beautifully.

Two favorite moments:

"Avoiding the gulf between what he thought she’d done to him and what she knew she’d done for him. In some kind of messed up way, staying away from it and from each other, was keeping them together."

Yes. Bingo.

"He needed too, to hold her, press against her, watch her face as he moved inside her, and feel her push against him as …..No."

Yes, too, dammit, even though it hurts. Wish it wasn't so screwed up with them but of course it is. Thank you. Dammit, thank you.

And on a lighter note, I love House, Wilson, and betting on extreme sports crashes. Awesome.

(Re: Wilson's dog. I think it's public domain now, another fic convention for Wilson like his poor taste in neckware. So carpe canem! ...even if he is a messy pooch sometimes...that's what happens when House feeds him beer and burritos.... [A thought - House = Vicodin + cane (+job) :: Wilson = wives/women + dog (+job)? Women to keep normal, dog for support? Maybe plugging sports in where the dog is would make more sense canonwise given the sparkly state of Wilson's office, though...just a thought.])

You get Rugby now too? *kicks ESPN 1, 2, and 3*

I like this daily fic thing. I'm getting spoiled and I like it.