So long, and thanks for..., House returns home post infarction

[Taruia]

Oh...that whole scene with the picture was GREAT! Wow...I can so totally see that pic in my head and it makes me want to give House a big hug..

Great work as always!

Taru

[Auditrix]

SLIP 'N'SLIDE! That whole scenario was just so perfect.

This chapter really made me think about why House is still so tied up in knots about Stacy. He's usually so forgiving of other people's mistakes, and here it's like some part of him really wants to forgive Stacy, and yet he just won't let himself. Every time he comes close he does something to distract himself or stir up his anger.

Maybe it's because this time it's tied up with forgiving himself and with his anger and sorrow at what's happened. He needs somebody to blame.

[Benj]

Taru, Auditrix - much thanks and glad the Slip'nSlide scene worked for you.

It was one of the highlights of my six-year old life when we visited my parent's friends in Phoenix and they introduced us to it. My Mum bought us one to bring back home and we had years of fun with it, until it met its end at my 18th birthday party.


Another small warning with this chapter- There is some harsh and the odd expletive.

Chapter Eight.

I woke up this morning
To find that we have outlived the myth of trust
You woke up this morning
To the fact we've lost the things
We took for granted between us

“The Myth of Trust” - Billy Bragg



House picked up the book staring at it hard, until he heard her leave. Good. No, not good. She was right. It might work for him but it wasn’t going to work on her. It didn’t really work for him either. He felt like crap. He knew he’d gone too far, but it hurt. He wanted her to hurt too. It wouldn’t work because it didn’t matter as much for her. No way, he knew that. How could she have done this to him if it mattered? She’d said it, she knew he wouldn’t be able to take it and she’d still done it. Knowing it could end them and still, she’d signed the paper. They had meant nothing to her, so what the fuck did it matter what he did?

Stacy slammed the phone against the counter. Table confirmed, great. She was really feeling like dinner now. If it hadn’t meant escaping this unbelievable mess for a few hours, she’d have cancelled. Thinking like that made her even more angry. Running out wasn’t her, pouring it all out to a girlfriend and crying over wine and chocolate. Case notes in the lounge. She’d try to concentrate, repeating it to herself, as she grabbed the case from the hallway, still shaking.

Thirsty and hungry. House pushed back the sheets, feeling dizzy as he sat up from lying so long. He picked up the cane, and grabbed a t-shirt from the pile in closet. Hearing the tap of computer keys in the lounge room, he ventured to the kitchen. Drinking milk straight from the carton, wiping his mouth on his hand, as he binned it. If he wanted to enjoy more than one beer tonight, he needed some kind of lining. Stomach growling to reinforce the thought, he turned his attention to food. Heating anything up would take too long and promised to much hassle. He grabbed a couple of slices of bread and some butter/not butter stuff from the fridge. Sandwiches were the way forward and he poked around in the pantry until he found what he needed. Syrup, not the maple tastes like trees kind, but gooey, gorgeous, golden syrup. Piling it onto the bread with a knife then flattening it out, he added a little sugar and a top slice. He considered for a moment taking it back to the bedroom, weighing up which side of the ‘no crumbs’ rule if fell, but decided against it. He didn’t need any more crap now and syrup on the sheets would be a banker.

Stacy heard noise from the kitchen. She’d managed at least half of what she hoped to and had to think about showering and changing for dinner. Doing that from the confines of the main bathroom wasn’t going to work.

House finished his sandwich and mopped up the syrup spills and his muscles ached. Just needed to let the inevitable payback for a good day take its course. Body needed some rest from the all the strain of the previous day, he’d appeased it to some extent with bed rest, it should help it settle. That’s what you did with muscle strains, you rested them, a little menthol and some ibuprofen. When you knew that’s what it was. Not the pain that resulted from a blood clot forming in the muscle tissue. Thinking it made him seethe and shudder, he pushed against the counter, trying desperately not to focus on his body, just anything, just to make it go away.

“You okay?” Stacy stood in the kitchen doorway .

“I’m fine” he said quietly through his teeth.

“Need to get ready for tonight” she added tiredly.

“Sure” House answered, distant.

Waiting until he heard the flow of water stop, he force himself to take it slowly as he limped along the hallway. He stopped suddenly when she saw her sitting by the bedroom mirror, uncertain how to react, he froze.

Long dark hair, loose against her back, pale skin glistening with moisture. Sleek fingers teasing her hair, sweeping it into a clasp. Watching her sliding gloss over her lips, captivated by her delicate movement he couldn‘t move away, eyes following the gentle curve of her body. Never failed to turn him on, even now feeling guilty as he watched her, wanting to hold her . .

Couldn’t take it, not if he couldn’t take her, Stuck watching from a distance like some drunk guy in a strip bar… Stop. Guilty for feeling that more, more than he wanted to hold her, chase his fingers across her skin, slip his tongue .. She looked up at him, intense brown eyes searching for something, he knew she wanted something from him and he looked away.

He moved silently from the door way to the den, away.

“We don’t have to talk.” He knew she was near, closing his eyes against the light perfume filling his head, guilty.

He didn’t move his head to look at her, trying hard against the persuasion of knowing she was standing their, feeling her presence. If it could be that easy. It had always been easy, after a fight or early morning before work, no words, only need and knowing. Knowing where to touch, silently pressing, skin tender against his rough skin, her face as she came, body shaking against him, nails pushing into his back, scraping his thighs…No. His head swimming as the image fading, crowded out with doubt and fear, pulling him back to now.

The PT nurse asking if he wanted to talk about the any of the more ‘intimate’ implications of his disability, they had leaflets, maybe counselling, “You screwed up my leg not my screwing prowess” he’d muttered, shaken with embarrassment and anger . He knew he was still going to get a hard-on when he saw nice breasts or a cute ass. How the hell was any of that going to help? Did he need to fuck a counsellor or a leaflet to get his dick back into shape? Was it going to make it any less degrading to struggle out of his pants, knowing seventy percent of ‘physically-challenged’ people still manage a fulfilling sex life? Would hearing patronising platitudes take away the humiliation of having to say ‘Honey, if you’re going down on me, keep away from my leg and try not to be turned off by the scar.”? Would a gentle talk with a ‘sensitive’ stranger make him more trusting, more sure his limits would still be enough for her, it wasn’t pity but pleasure, didn’t leave her needing something else, someone more?

Stacy watched him, staring ahead as though he hadn’t heard her, she didn’t exist. Flushing beneath her make-up, angry, she turned back to the bedroom. How many times did he need to push her away to make it better for him, was that what this was? She didn’t want a deep talk, just to share something they both needed, feel closer again. They did it all the time, before, no apologies or heartfelt speeches, just the honesty of physical contact. Seeing him standing there, she’d seen the desire, why couldn’t it be simple just for a little while, she knew it wasn’t going to change anything. She wouldn’t see it as acceptance, but it could make them feel less alone, could be something. Finishing her make-up and she slipped on kitten heels as she leaned against the window, sadness and hurt mixing, trying hard to stop the tears she knew were forming.

House stabbed the back of the couch with his fist, and grabbed the remote, switching on the tv and upping the volume until he couldn’t hear his head anymore. Flicking through he found the warm-up chat before the game, an injured linebacker proffering gruff gabble about Fire’s chances. Trying to concentrate, he heard a taxi horn and moments later the slam of the apartment door. Couldn’t have expected a big ‘Dating Game’ kiss he thought ruefully as he made his way to the kitchen. He needed a beer.






* Just need to add a big thank you to my mate Marcus, for sharing a lot of personal stuff which helped to make writing this easier.

[sy_dedalus]

Great job as always, Benj.

House's snack - wow, sugar high.

The desire in this...just so hard to read, but so good.

Also loved the part with the pamphlets and House's anger there. So seething and biting. Just...ouch. Very well done.

You sustain the proximity/intimacy and anger/desire of their situation so well. A slow, angry boil that's always threatening to spill over but never does is much worse than a knock-down drag-out fight and you're capturing it in all its delicacy and madness.

Cheers

[Benj]

Sy - cheers House’s sugar snack is real in so far as I know people who eat it, my brother included. Too sickly for even my sweet loving teeth, but fairly commonplace in Yorkshire, home to battered Mars bars (they are nice). People wonder why we have the ‘bad teeth’ tag when we fill our filling filled mouths with this kind of junk, but maybe its all the sugar that keeps us high enough to enjoy cricket.


Disclaimer of sorts- the description of the football game (apart from the fact that I like Rhein Fire) is based on my understanding only. Reading rules or listening to other people’s explanations of sports doesn’t work too well for me, so its just based on my limited knowledge from watching. If its inaccurate or doesn’t work, please feel free to shout at me, I‘m sorry.






Chapter Eight (contd)

If you don't mind
I'll keep my thoughts to myself
If you don't mind,
you can do the other
So you want me to find a reason
find a reason
If you don't find a reason why

“Less than useful” - Ned’s Atomic Dustbin



Pulling open the stopper on a cold Grolsch, House felt cold beer hit his stomach, making him feel warm inside. Fire had their first chance of a field goal, Ricky Novac, the regular kicker had strained his calf during the first five and the new guy skewed it well wide of the post. Less than two decent plays in over half an hour, he was getting restless flicking the stopper on the bottle, as least Europeans did beer better than they did football. Trying not to think of anything other than enjoying a drink for the first time in a while, but it wasn’t happening. The image of her, in the bedroom just wouldn’t go away, he needed a proper distraction, something better than watching a third rate football game. Usually if he was alone Saturday night he’d call Wilson and they’d hit a few bars in town. He didn’t feel like calling Wilson, he didn’t need any conversation tonight. He needed to get out.

Bars in town would be too far on his own, full of annoying weekend types making the most of it, but the little place a couple of blocks away was within his reach. He hadn’t been a while, generally only used it as a last resort if he’d had a heavy day and needed to step off the world for a while before he got home. Draining the bottle, he found the phone and called a cab. He swallowed a pill and reached for his denim jacket The spiel about mixing meds and alcohol was overdramatic, he knew it all inside out and didn’t plan to get smashed. His leg actually felt better for a beer or he didn’t feel it as much because of the beer, whichever, didn’t matter.

Cab driver was miserable, which was perfect, no stupid ‘how’s your day’ crap and it was a short trip. TC’s was empty but not quiet, some kind of band were tuning up, or tuning out to be more accurate. Guitarist had a poor man’s mohican and was making a hash of a simple riff. Settling himself at the bar, he ordered a single malt. The drummer joined in, in a way out of time kind of way that made him pray they didn’t plan to sing too. Watching was the draw of this place, he’d found it not long after he’d moved to Princeton. It had no scene or discernable qualities and it wasn’t the haunt of any specific type. No more drunks than any other city bar, wasn’t a pick-up joint or home to any scene. Just a bar with people filling in the space and filling in their spaces. He’d come here a lot before; just to watch, like a film with a revolving cast. Minimum hassle, a lot of different people, doing their different things for the same reason. A guy in a sheepskin coat and Trilby took a seat near the band, House recognised him, he’d seen him all the time, back then. Sitting alone with a pint and a paper, sometimes taking in the band or just filling out a crossword, didn‘t look like he‘d changed much. The bartender approached and he held out his glass.

Easing into the evening as the wine flowed and Stacy felt the tension recede, Jeff was one of her oldest friends from her law school days and he kept things light. He briefly asked about Greg and more about her, but moved on with merciful speed. Listening to them talk about a trip they had planned to Hong Kong in the fall, renovating their new house, she felt almost envious. Something normal, nothing overly exciting or dramatic, just easy. Would have been easier is she hadn’t known that however appealing it looked from the outside, six months in and she’d be bored out of her brain. This was the part of the evening when House would start pulling at his tie and make strangled expressions at her when he thought they weren’t looking. After a few death stares he’d up his game to a fake page or claim the need for a smoke break, wait until she came to look for him. When she found him he’d start touching her in a way that meant they had to go home or face being asked to leave. There weren’t going to be any of those distractions tonight, and as welcome as the change of scene had been for a short while, she still felt the need to get out and go home.


Fifth shot and it was working, his brain had slowed a few paces and the inactivity made him feel more relaxed. Taking a trip to the men’s room had been a little fraught, the tiles had a slipstream and he’d negotiated it with as much caution as he could muster with a few drinks inside him. He’d been enjoying the feeling of being unsteady on his feet for a reason other than just his leg and mid pee when two gay kids burst in. An older guy followed them and they started arguing. Apparently one of the younger guys was being accused by his partner of giving the older guy the eye. Pleading his innocence for a while, he’d given in, the older guy left and he started begging for another chance. It amused him, watching the guy plead and be forgiven, he’d made as quick an exit as the cane and floor allowed, when the kissing broke out. Was that all he needed, if she said she was sorry, would he be able to forgive her? No thinking. No more thinking, he finished his shot, letting the warm haze fill his head, numb his body and checked his watch. They’d be on to after dinner talk by now and he didn’t need to visualise her laughing, sharing her smile. He needed more of this, he asked the bartender to call him a cab and pour him one more for the road, hoping it would be enough to make him feel sleepy when he got back.

House steadied himself between the cane and the parking lot fence. The female cab driver had been an awful mix of over perky and under bright and hadn’t taken the hint when he faked sleep. Hoping that he looked enough of a wierdo with potential that she’d be dissuaded from trying to offer him any assistance had failed. So he threw her a fifty as a failsafe, knowing her dumbness would ensure she was occupied with trying to work out his change even if it took both their lifetimes for him to haul himself clear of the car. Drunk and crippled was not a great combination and it took tolerating pain to a new level to drag himself out of the car without falling. Nearly two hours of his leg being borderline bearable had to end sometime and it had marked the event in spectacular fashion, sending a shot of searing pain as a reminder. The door to the building was way too much for even drunken exuberance to coax him into trying, so he just concentrated on staying vertical for a while. The pain in his leg had stepped up to a constant he could barely cope with. Standing was at the top end of tolerable and he thought about giving in and sitting but the possibility of not being able to get up again was worse. Shutting his eyes, he tried to erase the pain by filtering out his senses, hoping if he kept his energy expenditure to a minimum he might be able to think about moving in a little while.

The slam of car door brought him round and the sound of Stacy’s heels opened his eyes. Fuck. Anyone else, not her.

“Having fun?” she asked tersely.

“Heaps” House replied, trying not to sound slurred. “You should try it sometime, I recommend it.”

“What are you doing” Stacy asked,

He thought about treating it as rhetorical, but she didn’t move.

“Waiting for you.” he said, she didn’t answer.

“Didn’t want you getting hassle from passing bums,” He motioned with at her with his head, “looking like that.”

Stacy looked around “You’re the only one.”

“Good, because I think I overestimated and dealing with slimy letches might be a little out of my league at the moment.” he added as innocently as he could manage. “How is Jeff?”

“Jeff and Linda are fine.” she looked him over “You’re drunk.”

“Didn’t he see you home?” he looked at the ground, trying to disguise the effort it was taking to stay standing, “Shame on him and his nice boy manners.”

“Give me your hand, you‘re too drunk to walk” she held out her hand

“Too drunk to fuck. That’s a not a bad tune.” House said, hoping if he stalled enough, she’d get annoyed and leave him. Knowing she had a point didn’t make him any more predisposed to conceding it .

“Give me your hand” Stacy insisted, touching his sleeve

“Why?” House flinched, looking away, “You going to kiss it all better?”

“Because you need me.” She stated calmly.

House stood, for as long as he could he stand it, before he blanked his mind and placed his hand in hers.

[sy_dedalus]

I've got to find a new way of saying daa-aaamn. So good this is, so good.

I have to say again that I love the way you're drawing this out. It's dead-on realistic and just unbelievably well done. Can't wait for more!

[Benj]

Cheers again Sy! Glad the pace is working for you, I’m working a lot from the conversation in Honeymoon when Stacy says “How many time have we been through this….”, I figure it was more than once.


Sorry for the delay, cricket, playing it and watching us beat the Aussies (!). Hot weather, at last got in the way too and I’m excited, Glastonbury is but days away and from never seeing him perform, I get to see Brian Wilson twice in three days, because he’s playing in Liverpool too. Sorry- that’s nothing to do with this fic, but its making me so happy. Beer and Brian- too hot to handle.


Chapter Nine


Generally I'd try to fake it,
but these days I'd rather face it.
Caught in my shadow.
If it's not enough I gave my blood,
my sweat, my tears, and I said I would.
Caught in my shadow.

‘Caught in my shadow” - The Wonderstuff




Stacy let go of his hand and placed an arm under his right shoulder. House leaned into her, trying to make the most of the extra support, without adding his weight. His leg reacted to the movement and he tensed, digging his nails into his left leg in the feeble hope it might persuade his right to hold out. She felt so solid against him and it jarred, the ridiculous anti-reality of someone, at least half his weight, possessing twice his current strength. Taking the hand he’d placed limply around her shoulder, Stacy squeezed it lightly, damp skin lifeless, as he shivered beneath her touch. Opening the door she steadied him before releasing her support, to allow him through ahead of her. Heat permeated the entrance hall and House thought about ditching his jacket but it just seemed to much effort. Realising that they weren’t going to manage to carry them up to the apartment, Stacy kicked off her shoes, leaving them where they fell.

“Better come back down and pick them up before the morning?” House nodded toward the shoes.

“You’re worried that someone might trip over them?” she asked, sceptical.

“No. You haven’t seen the new janitor.” he replied, over bright in the hope it would provide some cover against the crap he was feeling, “Wears some kind of eye paint, makeup stuff. Very pretty, could be his thing “

Knowing it was lame before he said it didn’t matter, he just needed to hold onto the pause in movement. Breathing deeply, he wondered about his chances of making up to the apartment if her let her go. Getting through the door had been the only truly impossible part, maybe with a little rest he’d make it. The plastic chair in the hallway didn’t look to possess too many therapeutic qualities, but it looked a cert to pass the ‘available and capable of bearing weight’ test.

Stacy motioned to him, gesturing toward the lift. Subtlety wasn’t going to be effective or appreciated.

“Go on. I’ll be okay,” House resisted.

“You think so?” Stacy questioned, making sure he saw her look him over.

“Don’t start” he replied, indignant, half hoping she wouldn’t hear him.

“I’m not going to “start” she tried to assure him, to ignore the bait, “I’m fine with fast forwarding through my attempts to get you to share even a single thought, straight to the silent sulking part, if you really want. Just give me your arm and it’ll make it happen faster.”

“I’m not sulking” House said petulantly

“No. I stand corrected, your drunk.” moving toward him “Sulking starts when that part ends.”

House thought about a retort but decided against it, knowing his leg for certain and probably his head weren’t going to take standing around for much longer. Pressing as much weight as he could onto the cane, he limped toward the chair and tried not to show the relief he felt as the pressure on his leg receded.

Stacy watched him for a moment, trying not to let anger or sadness shift her determination, she pulled up the chair beside him.

House rubbed his head with his hand, wishing she was anywhere but sitting next to him. He hated sitting next to anyone on these kinds of chair, Too close to him see her face without turning and giving her his full attention.

“I don’t want this now” he said tiredly “Just leave it alone.”, almost pleading, he added, “Please.”

“When do you plan on talking to me?” Stacy pressed looking away , “I ask you to come out with me tonight and you refuse. I’ve tried talking to you and you ignore or avoid me.”

“That might be a hint that I don’t want to talk about it.” he pointed out, frustrated, wishing for just a little cessation in the pain so he could move, “Not sure, but kinda looks that way. We can talk about Jeff, that will be much more interesting. Is he more subtle now he’s married or had he just upped it in hoping for the girl, guy, girl thing. Got to like his style. Or I can tell you about my night…… ”

Stacy cut him off “You don’t want to talk about it or you don’t want to talk about it with me?”

“There is nothing to talk about.” He banged the cane against the chair leg,

“We did the all the talking. I talked, you listened, I listened, you talked. Then you went off and did what you wanted anyway.” He let his voice drop, he needed to lie down. “It was kind of a waste of energy and I don’t have much to spare right now. “

Watching for any glimmer of reaction, Stacy continued, undeterred, “I just want you to be honest.”

“Oh, right honesty.” House replied glibly, unable to resist, “You’ll have to give me a second here, while I hold back the tears, remembering how painfully honest you were. The sincerity in those big brown eyes as you held my hand. Just thinking of the tender ‘I love you’ while you waited for me to go under, is making me tear up.”

“And you were honest?” Stacy challenged, not letting him distract her, “How were you not lying to yourself with the ‘I can get through the pain’ stupid, senseless crap. That was you being honest?”

“Ladies and gentleman of the jury,” House mimicked, she asked for it and he was going to have a little fun, however pathetic it made him feel or sound, “whether ‘tis nobler in the mind, to lie to yourself, knowing there will be no consequences for anyone other than you or to use, and some of the cynics amongst you may say ‘abuse’ though not I, I must add , the trust of someone who loves you.”

“You’re not listening. I asked if you think you were honest?” Knowing she was pushing him too far but she had to, she had to know, to hear him say it, “Because either you were honest, and you wanted to die, or you were lying to yourself?”

“It wasn’t about whether or not I was right or wrong , it was just my choice.” House slammed back, resentful, how could she know? “How many times do you need to hear that before you understand it wasn’t your choice?” he fired back, angry that they where here again, having the same argument whilst his leg hurt and he just wanted away from it all.

“How many times do you need to hear me, before you believe that I did it to save your life?” not pausing to hear him, Stacy asked, lost to her need to make him understand.

“I don’t need to hear you say it.” House let his anger go for a moment, he was being straight, she had to see that if nothing else got through, “I didn’t want you ever to have to say that, its my point, I made the decision. My life, my choice.”

“And there were no consequences?” This was hard, but it was all hard and she couldn’t let go, “You didn’t think it had any consequences for me, that it didn’t matter whether you lived. It didn’t matter to you. I want to hear you say it. You say it.” turning and facing, making him look at her, “You say that it didn’t matter for you.”

“I made my decision, I did what was right for me and I made it clear to you because you matter to me.” He looked at her for a long moment. “ I didn’t want you to have to make any decisions or tough calls. No heart wrenching, hand wringing moments, wondering what I might want, what was best. I told you what I wanted.”

“You’re not answering me.” Stacy persisted, “I want you to say it didn’t matter to you.”

“I knew I’d make it.” House spoke quietly, head resting against the cane, needing the support, sapped from the pain and the weight of arguing.

“No you didn’t. You deal in numbers and odds, no certainties. I told you that if had been a patient….”

“Of course there weren’t any certainties and it wasn’t a patient, it was me, what I thought. It didn’t matter if I was right or wrong, That didn’t matter, it was my choice.” cutting her off. He’d spend the rest of the night saying it if he thought there was any chance she’d take it in.

“But you still thought I’d sit there, do nothing.” Her head full of the waiting room, of Wilson, of nurses, of no one, “Watch you die with nothing to think about but whether to do Vegas or Monte Carlo with the life insurance cheque?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I thought.” He felt the lead lining in his stomach, the drowning weight that had deepened beyond anything he’d ever known, that feeling , the surgeon, telling him…. No. Fighting hard, it was hard to breathe, the heat, remembering. No.

He turned toward her, forcing himself to focus, holding her with his gaze. If he could hold her again, if it didn‘t happen or if he didn‘t care, he just wanted beyond this or behind it, but not sitting here, exhausted, doing it again.

“I trusted you.” he swallowed hard, he meant this and she had to feel that if nothing else. “I signed you up as my healthcare proxy to make decisions only if I couldn’t make them myself. . It wasn’t some kind of trump card that you pull out because your hand doesn’t look great.”

“It wasn’t looking out for me,” she wanted to touch him, “it wasn’t my hand.”

“Finally. It wasn’t your hand” he looked up at her again, desperate to see some sign she had some grasp, some idea of what he needed her to understand, “It was my leg, it was my life.” He knew from the way she was staring back that didn’t see it, no connection, no recognition. Resigned he added bitterly, “Funny, I think I heard that somewhere before.

“Yeah, your worthless life” She bit back, equal to his sarcasm “Might as well have been cards, because you played it like a card shark with nothing but a quick fifty to loose.

“Any card shark I know would have been proud of your poker face.” Pointless, this was so fucking pointless, and it was making his head hurt.

“You hate your life now so much you’d rather I’d left you to die?” She had to know, it was futile to even try, if she didn’t get some kind of answer, “You haven’t had one happy moment since this this happened?”

“No.” House sighed, weary. “It’s just before I have any of the ‘happy’ moments, before I take in the joy every morning of oxygen in my lungs and the beauty of my beating heart, I feel pain. This is the part where I tell you again, for the sixty- seventh time, its not going to change. Talking about this, as I said, is a waste of time.”

“So I just wait around and hope you get less angry?” She asked, wide-eyed.

“You can do whatever you want.” It almost scared him hearing and knowing that he did feel that apathetic. He added, in mock horror, “ Oh no! We’re back where we started. Do you think that means anything? Maybe we could get this taped and you can play it back anytime you want to ‘talk’”

Reaching into his jacket he pulled out his pills, feeling her watch him. He pushed back into the chair, wiping the moisture from his face. His skin felt so clammy he wanted to peel it off. Knowing she was still looking at him.

“Don’t.” He warned her, “Don’t say anything about mixing meds”

“Alcohol isn’t a med.” she said tired, not wanting the debate, but needing to say it.

“Really? Makes me feel less….” he feigned a search for words, “well less everything, but you know best. I’ll try and hang on to that one.” he swallowed the pill, hoping it would find its way through the haze, to his brain with some kind of urgency.

“It‘s too late for this.” Stacy stood and held out a hand, “You’ve had a break, we can make it upstairs.”

“What if I don’t want to go back upstairs?” avoiding her hand and tried to look casual as he forced his weight onto his good leg and cane. Livid with her and at himself for caring. Angry that that it angered him that she’d worked out that he’d had to stop, “You got a couple of guys waiting in the wings ‘til I’m asleep so they can carry me up anyway?”

Turning sharply, she looked back at him, studying his face, trying to read his expression.

“Sorry.” Some part of him meaning it, he added, “Maybe that was cheap”

“It’s a lot of things. But no, it’s not cheap.” She walked away from him and waited by the elevator.

[Rococoms]

Wow Benj.... you know, it occurred to me reading this part that reading this fic is like watching "Titanic" or something like that... You know how the story is going to end, and yet the whole time you keep hoping that somehow, someway, someone is going to realize it just a bit sooner to yell "iceberg, right ahead!" and avert the disaster...

Well done. The emotions are so raw, and so painful- and I just keep hoping that one of them will realize before it's too late the big tragedy looming ahead of them.!

[Benj]

Rococoms- cheers, very much for the feedback - much appreciative . I know the feeling, I’m writing it and part of me kind of wishes it didn‘t end up being so much of a train wreck. Which is weird because I’m not even sure what I think of Stacy, but I guess that what makes me interested, somehow.




Chapter Nine (contd)


Tiredness pummelled his body as he made it, finally, to their apartment. Pushing lightly against the door, relief and something like guilt fusing as he opened the door gently. Too tired to think anything intelligible, but he had rated it at least an odds on chance he’d find the door locked. If it had been the case, it didn’t pose a practical teaser. He had keys in jacket, but it might have alleviated some of the six kinds of bastard he was feeling.

An all over ache was strangely comforting, the pain in his leg had a slight edge, but the whole body ache had an evenness which made him tired in a general way rather than overly aware of a specifics. He needed to cool down and headed for the main bathroom, his t-shirt sticking to his back with the moisture from the hot, damp air. Resting against the door, he pulled his t-shirt over his head and loosened the tie of his sweatpants. Moving as gently as he could manage, he lay down on the floor, gasping as his back made contact with the cool tiles. Stretching his legs to maximise the pleasure of the cold, hard surface against his skin. Just enjoying the moment, relaxing each muscle, checking them off on the inventory of aches, it felt so good. Leaving it until he felt his breathing evening out to a rhythm, he lifted his hips gently, levered the warm material of his pants until they reached his knees and leaned back. He couldn’t stifle the groan, as his thighs touched the tile and the tension oozed from his body. It beat sauna’s, Jacuzzi’s, hot baths or ice baths, just a perfect sensation, perfect antidote to too hot skin.

He’d picked it up years ago, just after college, during a long summer of residency in Maine. Taking the apartment without seeing it had been a mistake, draughty in the cold and no air con in the summer. Only plus point had been the rent, it was cheap and back then he reasoned that money spent on accommodation was basically a tax on enjoyment. Coming home to find the sink joint had cracked in the bathroom and the landlord’s subsequent lack of interest hadn‘t been a major surprise. Lying underneath it and trying to tighten an alleged hand-tie joint, his shirtless back felt the wisdom of choosing tiles over lino in bathrooms.

It made him feel almost sleepy and he grabbed his t-shirt and made a pillow. He’d thought about it when they moved him from ICU to the ward, asking if he could have a slab from the mortuary to lie instead of the heat trap bed he ended up with. Mentioning it to the nurse had backfired, she was devoid of humour and panicked when he made some comment that it must make it cool to be dead. If he could find some cold tiles for his head now. Just to slow everything down, solidify and it make it something, something other than the liquid thought mass sloshing through his brain.

Guilty didn’t fit, he just felt bad. He didn’t feel wrong for being angry at her, but he hated meaning it more than just saying it. They said harsh stuff to each other a lot, maybe worse stuff than he’d thrown at her in the last few weeks, but it was just the way they were. She could give it out and take it back just like he could, they went too far sometimes, but it never needed explaining beyond a blanket ‘sorry’. There was nothing to dissect or over-analyse, it just melted as quickly as it formed.

He’d hated the ‘love’ idea for a long time, that it justified and excused all kinds of stuff that shouldn’t be either. It didn’t make sense. It was some kind of weakness, to let it usurp things which were just right or wrong. Not that he had any pretensions to the ‘moral compass’ crap, because that was just crap. Knowing the map existed and how to read it, didn’t mean you had to want to find places and visit them. It was just the rational bit that got him, giving sense the finger, when it made everything clear.

Finding it and finding someone he loved had reversed his perspective, not over night and not in relation to anything else, but he knew it changed some part of him. If that change was permanent and irreversible then he was, basically, fucked. If he couldn’t make that part of him stop feeling so opposite to the way every other angry, sensible part of him did then he couldn’t make into any kind of sense. It was the lack of that sense that was making him feel a bastard, for not being able to get it together enough in his own head to share it with her. He should be able to share that, if nothing else, with her and he couldn’t. Pulling the t-shirt into a more even shape beneath his head, he let his eyes follow the shadow shapes on the ceiling.

Half an hour, she’d just make it half an hour. Stacy pulled on her sneakers and took the diving watch from House’s nightstand and slipped it over her wrist. Running would loosen her, keep her focused, she had to keep it all clear. The heat would make it harder and that would be good, resistance running would make it harder and she needed it to be hard. Leaving the apartment she didn’t check for any sign, any indication of where he was or what was he doing, this had to be about her and for her. It had been a while since she’d been on a run from their apartment, taken the well worn path to the Vet’s memorial, across the park, back along the Eastside, then back. It felt crass, even though they never ran together, to remind him. She’d just taken her gym gear to the office and used the facilities the practise shared with an accountancy partnership. Muscles felt tight but the burn was good as she stretched in the hallway, noticing her shoes lying beside the vending machine. Last night. Awake for an hour as it settled and she knew had to do something. More because she couldn’t do nothing but she had to think it through, see it through. Slamming through the building door she picked up a quick pace, probably too fast, but it had to be fast. Early Sunday morning couldn’t be any other morning. Just the purr of the dust cart and the light hum of downtown in the distance. The sun was intense, but the humidity was less and she ran though the park, past the dust bowl soccer pitches and up towards the memorial . Feeling the cadence level out as she hit the track across that tapered cut lawns, picking its way under the trees, shadows providing respite from the sun. Feeling the burn in her legs heighten, she pushed harder.

The Vet’s Memorial stood tall amongst the patchwork of ornamental flower beds. Usually she’d stop, lean against the stone and wait for a while, until she felt ready to go again. Deciding against it, she circled the granite perimeter and headed off toward the Eastside track. If she stopped, she might think and if she thought, she might feel.

House moved from the bathroom before the sun broke, head splitting while his leg bitched from lack of movement and too much. Filling up a glass of water, he’d run his head under the faucet and shambled toward the den. Not much more than shambled, it just all hurt too much, but he was building a tolerance. Not to the pain but to expecting it. He took a pill and the couch to try and ease into the day. Sleeping for a couple of hours, he’d heard a slam from somewhere below and it registered for long enough to wake him. He didn’t feel much like moving, but his thirst and need to pee were persistent. Emptying a whole carton of milk into a pitcher, he added three liberal scoops of Milo and a couple of spoons of sugar. Giving it a quick stir with a fork, he took it back to the den. Hangover cures were generally myth, but this had good solid nutritional numbers in its favour. Fluid to re-hydrate, enough glucose to replace lost carbs, milk to restore some semblance of balance to the stomach and it tasted fabulous. Unable to resist the draw of the chocolate masses lurking below the milk, he fished around with a spoon until he found one of a decent size. He’d made quick work of the first half and he lay back on the couch, as it settled.

Dodging the paper boy riding his bike across the sidewalk, Stacy pulled up as she reached the building. The home straight, just the stairs and she’d be home. Resolution didn’t make it easier, knowing hurt just as much as not knowing, but she had to keep going. She thought about him for the first time that morning, just him. Greg. Not his leg, his anger or all the other seemingly inseparables, just him. Slowing as she reached the door, feeling uncertain for the first time too. Did she want him to be awake? If she waited until he surfaced from wherever, would that take too long? No idea. Thinking it out wasn’t going to make it easier.

House stiffened as he heard the door shut, more alert than he’d hoped to be, but sugar did that. Stacy dropped her sneakers against the hall stand, trying not to notice the circle burn in the jacket resting at the base. Hearing the couch creak, knowing he was in the den, she rubbed her arms feeling cold despite the heat.

Glancing up, House saw her standing in the doorway, hair pulled back, skin gleaming from her run.

“You’re shivering after a run?”

Stacy moved from the doorway and stood in front of him, noticing the milk drink and how shattered he looked.

“Not saying anything either.” He observed, aiming for casual in the hope it would keep things light, he didn‘t need anything else now.

“Exercise too early in the morning isn‘t good for you, it’s a much under rated fact," he gestured at the drink, "There are much better ways to recover from Saturday night.”

She looked tense, too tense for her.

“Greg.” Stacy said softy, wishing she sounded harder.

‘Greg’ always meant serious. “Little early to be serious. My days of a before nine comeback are long in the past.” He knew it was something , didn’t want…to think

“I’ve been thinking a lot.” She tried to sound loud, even bold, convinced, but it just wasn’t anything. Just sounded pathetic.

“That’s dangerous too” He forced himself away from….. No. “I tried it.”

“I’m leaving” Hearing herself say it but it just didn’t feel like it came from her, she was too far away, looking at him, as he stared back, empty.

“I can’t stay.” Hearing it a negative made it sound less, but it hurt more. She couldn’t cry, just standing there, frozen, as the moment stretched. Beyond her, as she looked at him.

House picked up the spoon and tapped it gently against the glass, the noise filtering through his head, against her words, though her words, as they played back a second and a third time. Letting the breath, he hadn’t realised he was holding go, he pushed the glass away.










Just a couple of foot/bottom of page/something notes

The ‘sort you out’ shake- I drink it and it works, but I doubt it is even vaguely good for you.

The dialogue was tough to write and felt clumsy, sorry, I did my best. It sounds awkward, but I suppose my only justification is that it is, and there aren’t any right words even if these are the wrongs ones. But I’m still sorry if it doesn’t work for you.

[sy_dedalus]

I thought the dialogue was fine. Spare and sparse after the lengthy description - just right. And as you said, there are no right words for that situation.

Love the detailed description of House crashing out on the bathroom tiles. Been there.

So harsh. So good.

Thanks, also, for the quick updating.

[flannelsaurus]

I hadn't checked in on this in some time (summer courses and all, damn them) but I must say, Benj, that you took it and ran. This story is a like a bitterness inventory, each day and each encounter with Stacy filling in a piece that explains who House is when we meet him in The Pilot.

[snood250]

Love this fic. Very believable. I hope it's not all done.

[Benj]

Sorry it’s been a while. Had the greatest week, loads of mud, wet tent, beer and music- awesome. Brian Wilson brought the sun and topped it- people surfing the crowd to Little Saint Nick- no words, too great. Then up to Liverpool for more Brian, more mellow and lots of dancing Scousers in Hawaiian shirts to round off my heaven (sorry again, you didn’t sign up for a gig review- on to the fic!)

Big cold now, self inflicted and so worth it, means plenty of time to write. Have a lot in my head- so should move at a decent pace.

Snood250 – Cheers glad you like it and there is still a long way to go.

Sy- Glad you thought the dialogue worked, it was tough and I appreciate it. Bathroom tiles is just something I’ve tried when I’m hot or my back aches, no idea if it works for pain because I’m a lucky swine and never had much more than the odd headache, but good to know the description fitted.

Small warning for language again if it offends you and 'taste the rainbow' isn't mine, it belongs to the people who make nice little fruit sweets.

Must give huge credit to Flannelsaurus for offering to beta this for American- English. Thanks so much- you picked up stuff I would never have known about it. Great job of editing- you’re a star.



Chapter Ten


Waking up on a Sunday
I've been riding for a night or two
Looking out of the window
I'm so tired another drink will do
I'm just living a story
Like I heard it on a 45"
There's no one here to rely on
It's the sign that makes me wonder why

Well I can't get up no more
Though I tried standing in a forest of reason
Well I can't get up no more
Though I tried standing in a forest of reason

Driving into the sun light
I've been thinking about a better life
There nothing left to delight in
It's a sign we ain't got it right
Fading out on the highway
California coming into sight
There's no one here to rely on
It's the sign that makes me wonder why

“Can’t Get Up” Supergrass



House flinched as he saw her move, her shape against the light, not looking up. A half dark flicker as he watched the glass.

Flinging her damp t-shirt onto the bed, Stacy grabbed the duffle bag and her purse from the nightstand. Two work-suits hung against the closet, still sheathed in the protective plastic from the cleaner, she let her eyes flit across the room as she ticked off a mental checklist. Pulling on a sweatshirt, she lifted the suits and took her keys from the dresser. Not looking back, no looking back, she left the room and headed back to the den.

“I’m going to call Mac,” Stacy said, voice sounding harder than she intended, “Take a few days off,”

House felt the noise pull him, he reached out for the glass, weighing it in his palm

“I’ll call you” almost pleading, “You can call me”

Sugar crystallizing in the last swirl of milk, as it chased the edge of the glass, House rolled it gently against his palm absorbed in the motion.

Not gentle she couldn’t do gentle. She couldn’t let this break her, couldn’t stop or think, not yet, not now. Retreating, knowing she was running out and wanting to, wanting to run as she slipped silently through the hallway to the door and left.

Gripping the glass, House watched the colour fade from his knuckles as he tightened his grip. He let his right hand fumble blindly for the cane, and he struggled to his feet. Moving through the hallway into the kitchen, pushing his leg harder as the pain intensified. It hurt and he wanted it to hurt, why not? Turning in one movement he slammed the cane against the counter.

“Break, fucking break, you bastard” he screamed, at the cane, at the pain as it burst though his leg, Spears of white light flooding his eyes, the clatter of the cane reverberating against the tiles, he folded against the counter. A quiet empty ringing in his ears as he hung on, stomach rebelling too, burning his throat. Don’t black out, can’t blackout. Forcing a deep breath as the pain in his leg rippled out, washing through his body. Resting his head against the cold surface, he felt the pain evening toward a constant. He looked over at the cane. Gloating, unmarked and unmoved as he struggled to keep his balance, the cane. A cane was stronger? Weaker than a fucking stick. Pathetic.

Too damn pathetic for words. All this for this, for what? For a leg trapped in a vice which alternated its grip between the edge of bearable and agony, lumbering around with a stick and now she. .

She. Going away. Her words still sliding around his head, slowing now, as they stuck. She was gone.

Pulling the gearshift wildly as it slipped in her wet hand, Stacy drove out of the lot. Eyes damp as she turned out into the street and away, head racing. She had to stay practical, at least until she got to the hotel. Some of her wanted to call Wilson, but she knew it would be wrong. He was a friend but he was Greg’s best friend. Arguably his only real friend and probably her best shot, only shot. Someone who could talk to him or just be with him. That was wrong, selfish, because it made it about her and too many things; too much of this was about her. It was his call and she couldn’t justify it, just to feel easier.

House lifted his head from the counter. The searing pain had calmed enough to let thinking edge its way back. Not that there was anything to think about, there was nothing to register, nothing had happened, nothing new, no thinking needed.

It should have been a shock, a bolt out of nowhere but as much as it ripped it him it was just confirmation, cold against his head. The playing out of the inevitable. No hope in hell that this was ever going to work out any other way. He hated being him and it seemed fair enough that she’d get there too. Never going to be any ‘taste the rainbow’ moment or thunderbolt acceptance, he realised that, knew before it happened. Hating her choice was just part of it, loosing her had happened when she decided, maybe before that, maybe when the pain first hit his leg. Nature calling his number, like an attendant at a boating lake, ‘come in number five, your number’s up’. “’Time’s up’”. She’d changed that, negotiated, always the negotiator, got him a deal. Plea bargaining it down from the ending of his life to just ending the good parts. The end of feeling the happiest he’d ever felt, being with her. It was all over, just a long stretch of nothing ahead.

Feeling nothing. It couldn’t hurt. Like slicing a finger with a perfect blade, a surgeon’s cut, so sharp and precise that it didn’t register. Viewing it without feeling, like watching a re-run, he’d been that sure it would fuck up. Nothing he could have said or done differently would change the inevitable. She was never going to stick around, why should she? How could he expect her to? Changing the rules half-way through a game never worked, he hadn’t been a cripple when they met, when it got serious, it wasn’t their life. They weren’t about adapting and accommodating, he didn’t want her to make allowances or concessions, no half-measures or short-cuts. It wasn’t like before, it would have hurt if it was something he could fight, a fair fight, his to fight and lose.

The whole in ‘sickness and in health’ idea was bullshit, how could that kind inequality work, who benefited? Whether it was worse to be stuck with a cripple or be a cripple didn’t matter, either way it sucked. Love wasn’t going to magic everything better, make her feel less guilty watching him struggle with tying his shoes any more than it would make him less ashamed. It was a totally legitimate ‘get-out’, didn’t need hours of agonizing to see it was the right thing, she’d done the right thing.

Relief, yeah, relief, it felt good. That’s how it felt. Clean and manageable.

Still thinking of Wilson, Stacy parked up across the street from the hotel. Academics checking in for conferences, tourists, weekend visitors, people strolling across town, enjoying a Sunday in the sun. Wilson was her friend too, not her closest, but he understood why she loved House and talking to him would be more logical than talking to anyone else. It would be awkward for Wilson, he was too close and it compromised him. Not that she was as important, or anywhere near it, but it would make him feel compromised, it was in him to feel that, part of his charm but it made it harder now. Knowing she needed something from him, when she could think further, about being practical. That was why she was sitting here ready to check into a hotel rather than at home even though it hurt like hell it was practical. She had to pull herself out of this mess, free of him. Time wasn’t going to change anything, only make it worse and neither of them needed to slug it out, to let it deplete them. Timing couldn’t come into this, there was no right time, it was always going to be like this, repeating the thought as she lifted her suits from the back seat.

Raking a hand across his face, House felt drained, eyes scratchy from feeling overtired yet too awake to sleep. Maybe he should have taken up the offer of sleep meds, he’d refused because he hated the spaced out, fog filter it left in his brain. Eight hours of dream free, intravenous sleep, he’d take that. No fidgety, nagging pain, nagging brain napping just solid, out of it, sleep. Elbows aching from the weight of his body against the counter, he pulled out his pills. Moving wasn’t an enticing prospect and picking up the cane would be a harsh, falling would be worse. No one to find him, to help- because she, she wasn’t coming back.

[sy_dedalus]

Hurts so good. Gih.

There's more? Holy crap. 'Wow' and 'Oww'. Can't wait!

Glad you're back.

[snood250]

Yay, you're back.

And if getting a cold means you're writing again, I'm here to wish a really bad cold on you. May it take WEEKS to clear up!