Title: Eight Days, Eight Months
Author: Namaste
Pairing: House/Stacy
Rating: All
Beta: Auditrix

Summary: Yes, I know. We finally got rid of Stacy. But there were enough comments and hints dropped about the relationship they had and the time leading to the breakup that I couldn’t help myself. (And I found my mind wandering in areas Benj didn't cover, though -- lets face it -- he took on the territory first.)

This fic covers the time between House’s return home post-infarction and Stacy leaving him. It’ll be eight chapters (as the title suggests) with each chapter covering one day in each of those months of their deteriorating relationship.

Now, if I haven’t scared you off too badly with that introduction:






EIGHT DAYS, EIGHT MONTHS




AUGUST

The sun was already up when House woke, a steady light breaking past the heavy curtains that still covered the windows.

His head, though, remained wrapped in a thick, medicated blanket that surrounded him as he lay there. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again the light had changed, become even brighter.

He wondered if the fog would lift if he slept longer, but he could hear Stacy outside the bedroom, down the hall somewhere and instead he rubbed his eyes to get them to focus.

House turned his head to catch the time on the alarm clock, surprised to see it was well past 10 a.m.

“You’re finally awake.” Stacy’s voice came from the doorway on the other side of the room and House rolled his head toward her, following her progress around the end of the bed and to his side where she sat carefully on the edge of the mattress. “James said you’d be out for hours. I guess he knows his sedatives.”

“His patients also don’t live long enough to complain about the side effects,” House said. “I feel like my head’s been stuffed and mounted.”

“He said it’ll wear off, and you needed the sleep.”

House didn’t argue the point. After weeks spent in either the hospital or the rehab clinic, he’d been looking forward to coming home. Sleeping in his own bed. Sleeping through the night and waking to familiar settings, rather than the squeak of rubber soles and wheelchair tires on linoleum floors or the clatter of the breakfast cart.

But nothing at home felt right either. He and Stacy had switched sides on the bed so now she was on his left, less likely to accidentally bump into his right leg during the night, and everything seemed out of place -- the room itself aligning itself in the wrong shapes and at the wrong angle. The clock was on the wrong side, the bedside lamp cast the wrong shadows.

Even Stacy seemed off center. She had been on edge since he first arrived at the hospital, and it only got worse after his surgery, which really shouldn’t have been hard to define. But he kept thinking that somehow, sometime things would feel right again with her, but she’d sweep into his rooms wherever he was and this sense of “wrongness” that he hadn’t been able to name seemed to follow in her wake.

Now that he was home, she kept finding ways to keep herself busy somewhere away from him. Stacy had always enjoyed cooking the occasional major meal, but now she was spending hours in the kitchen every day -- preparing, then cooking, then cleaning -- when they had always split the chores in the past. His first night home, she had made his favorite seafood fettuccine dish, the second night home she made her mother’s moussaka recipe. Yesterday, when he told her he wasn’t hungry and asked her to take a break and come sit with him on the couch, she lectured him about how he needed to eat more, then began talking about how his mother had sent her the recipe for her beef stroganoff and headed into the kitchen.

The one time he had attempted to carry his own plate to the sink she had taken it from his hand and insisted he looked tired and should go rest.

And she had taken up smoking again -- had been since they moved him into rehab -- though she wouldn’t have admitted to it if he asked. From the time they had met she had raged against smoking with all the missionary zeal of an ex-smoker. Now she had taken to sneaking outside to light up, returning with mints on her breath and smoke clinging to her hair.

She seemed to measure every word carefully when they spoke. Sometimes House knew he was on the verge of saying something that would upset her, send her back out for another clandestine cigarette. Sometimes he stopped himself just before he said it. Sometimes he didn’t care whether he blurted it out. Sometimes he said it knowing exactly what her reaction would be.

He had hoped that once he was home, once he was back in his own bed, in his own world, that things might slip back into normality. That she would relax. That he could just let go. Instead, he lay awake at night, his mind racing, sleeping only in fits and starts, trying not to move, not to set off either his own leg or Stacy, who would look at him with concern and pity evident on her face.

Four days after his return home, he was still waiting for it to feel like home again.

When Stacy asked Wilson about sleeping pills, House had agreed to try one, both for her sake and his own, though he’d always hated the thick cotton-filled morning-after feeling he’d had whenever he had been given them before.

“How are you feeling this morning, other than the taxidermy effect?” Stacy gently caressed his forehead and cheek. House thought he picked up a faint familiar smell from her skin. It wasn’t smoke, but his brain didn’t click into gear fast enough to place it before she pulled her hand away again.

“I’m all right,” he said.

House pushed himself up into a seated position, Stacy adjusting the pillows behind him. He couldn’t stop himself from reacting as the pain from his leg cut through the fog. Just before he closed his eyes, he saw Stacy give a sympathetic wince.

He kept his eyes closed for a moment and leaned back, waiting for his head to adjust. When he opened them again, Stacy had turned to the night stand and was opening the amber plastic pill bottles.

“Ready for your morning meds?”

“I can get those myself,” House said. “That’s the advantage to having them right there.”

“I know.” Stacy held out a glass of water in one hand and two pills in the other. “But I’m here, and I don’t mind.”

House waited for a moment, considering whether he could make her put them down and let him handle it on his own, but decided he didn’t have the energy to fight her just now and took the water and pills. He stared at them in the palm of his hand -- the orange Coumadin tablet and the larger white Vicodin. He debated whether he could go without the Vicodin this morning, but decided he didn’t feel like fighting his leg either and swallowed both down with a gulp of water.

Stacy took the glass back from him and placed it on the night stand. She leaned in for a kiss, lingering for just a moment before pulling away, but caressed his face again with her right hand. “I’ll start some more coffee,” she said. “You feel up to breakfast?”

House shrugged.

“Is that a yes shrug or a no shrug?” Her hand dropped down onto his chest and he could feel the warmth from her skin through his t-shirt.

“Yes,” he said. “Just don’t go to too much bother.”

“Well it’s Sunday morning,” Stacy said. “How about I splurge and toss some frozen waffles into the toaster oven? I even picked up some of that god-awful sugary crap you prefer over real maple syrup.”

“That crap has more substance than that thin watery so-called natural slime you prefer,” House said.

“It also has a list of ingredients I can’t even begin to pronounce.”

“Chemicals are our friends.” It was an old argument, but one that felt more natural than any conversation they’d had in days.

“You feel up to eating in the kitchen or do you want me to put it on a tray and bring it in here?” House leaned against the pillows again. Back to the invalid theme then.

He shook his head and pushed himself back upright again. “Kitchen,” he said. “I need to get up anyway.”

Stacy stood and he pulled back the covers. She waited just to his left side as he used his hands to swing his right leg to the ground, looking like she barely could stop herself from reaching over to help.

It was further down to the floor than when House had gone to the hospital. Wilson had come in before his return home and raised the modern Asian-influenced bed up with blocks under the legs so it’d be easier for him to get up and down. Yet another change that had been waiting for him when he finally made it home.

House took a few deep breaths once both feet were on the floor and shook his head to try and clear away the fog again. He saw Stacy start to reach around him for the crutches leaning against the wall, tucked into the space between the bed and night stand.

“I’ve got them,” he said and reached out to grab them. “I’m good.”

“You sure?” House nodded and she leaned down to kiss him on the cheek.

“Maybe you should shave today,” she said. “It might feel good.”

House could feel the pieces of the puzzle snap into place. “Oh crap,” he said and looked up at Stacy. “When is she getting here?”

“She?”

“The only time you ever bug me to shave is when your mother’s coming,” House said. “And I can smell the jewelry cleaner on your hands. The only time you feel a need to clean and wear that crucifix is when you’re mother is here for a visit.”

“I wear it more often than that,” she protested.

“Not that often. A good 80 percent of the time it’s when you expect to see her. Now, when is she coming?”

Stacy opened her mouth once or twice and shook her head, but then rolled her eyes up and off to the left. “This afternoon.”

“Haven’t I been through enough lately?”

“Greg, she’s my mother,” Stacy protested. “She’s been ... worried about you.”

“So tell her I’m not up to visitors.” House pushed himself up and onto the crutches, settling himself on the foam pads under his arms and beneath his hands. He caught his balance before turning to look at Stacy.

“That’s what I said the first two times I told her not to come. Now that you’re home, she wouldn’t buy it a third time.”

“Why not? Spice it up a little. Tell her I’ve had a relapse. Tell her it’s mutated into an airborne variant and she could catch it herself.”

“She’s coming,” Stacy said and walked across the room. “Deal with it.”

“Why should I?” House asked and Stacy stopped at the doorway, turning back to face him. “She hates me anyway, so why should I have to put up with her?”

“Because I have to,” Stacy said. “And we’re a package deal.” She crossed back over to him and kissed him on the cheek again. “Now stop whining and go get cleaned up.”

House watched her walk back out of the room. “I’m not shaving,” he called out.

Stacy leaned back into the door. “If you do, I’ll invite James to join us and even let you two move the Playstation into the bedroom so you can ... get your rest ... while Mom and I talk.”

Then she was gone again. House could hear her footsteps moving down the hallway. “Blackmail is illegal, you know,” he yelled. “I even know a good lawyer. I bet she’ll take my case!”

“No she won’t!”

------------

House heard the knock at the door at a little after 2 o’clock. He had the Times spread across the couch cushions to his left, the magazine section open across his lap and his leg propped up on the coffee table.

He could heard Stacy moving aside pots and pans in the kitchen, the radio playing some public radio Celtic music program. He looked up, expecting to see her walk through the kitchen door and across the living room.

She didn’t show and the knock came again. He put the magazine on top of the pile of the rest of the sections

“Honey, can you get that?” Stacy’s voice came from the far side of the kitchen, somewhere near the pantry. “My hands are ...” She stopped in mid sentence and he heard her set down something heavy.

He had moved his leg to the floor and was reaching for his crutches when she rushed into the room, drying her hands on a towel. “Sorry,” she said. “I ...” and stopped herself in mid sentence again.

“I could have gotten it,” House said. “You just had to give me a minute.”

“Can we not fight about this just now? I can’t deal with both you and my Mom right now.”

“I wasn’t fighting,” House said, but she waved her hand at him trying to cut him off. Instead he settled back down and set the crutches back down on the floor.

He heard her let out a sigh. “You’re early,” she said, sounding more relieved than he would have expected. “Thank God.”

“I thought I’d drop by and see if you needed any help,” Wilson’s voice came from the far side of the room and House looked up to see him, feeling himself let go of some tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding onto.

“Don’t believe him,” House said. “He’s just too cheap to buy his own damn newspaper, so he comes over to sponge off of us.”

“I seem to recall something about a pot, a kettle and the color black,” Wilson said. “You should check it out.”

“Sounds like a really dull story,” House said. “Hardly worth the effort.”

House moved his leg back up onto the coffee table and leaned back into the couch cushions again.

“James, can you give me a hand?” Stacy called to him from the kitchen entrance. “I need you to get the good dishes down from the top shelf in the pantry.”

“Sure thing.”

House opened the magazine again. He tried to concentrate on the article, but he could hear the murmur of both Wilson’s and Stacy’s voices coming from the kitchen. He could make out the general flow of the conversation -- what Wilson had done that morning, what Stacy was making for dinner -- then the volume dropped to just over a whisper. Great. So now he was the topic. Again.

When Wilson walked back into the living room, he headed straight for the TV, leaning down over the back to look at the wires and connections . “Should I unhook the system or do we want to just roll the whole thing into the bedroom?”

“Oh, what, I have a choice in something about my life now? I have options?”

Wilson stood up again, put his hands on his hips. “Only if you tell me which you’d prefer, otherwise you’ll just have to live with whatever I do.” He shook his head and bent back over the TV. “Now stop bitching and make a decision.”

House sighed and set the paper aside again. “Just grab the system.” He put his leg on the floor again and reached for the crutches. “The TV in the bedroom isn’t as good, but this way we’ll only have to deal with one set of wires.”

House stood and watched as Wilson turned the TV at an angle so he could reach behind to the mixture of color-coded cables.

“Look for the red, white and yellow ones,” House said.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ve got it.”

Wilson had crouched down beside the set, leaning forward to grab the right cables. House knew he could have grabbed the whole set of wires within 30 seconds -- or at least he used to be able to do the fast switch before, whenever Stacy demanded peace and quiet in the living room. Now? He turned his back on Wilson and headed down the hallway to the bedroom.

House was standing at the end of the bed when Wilson carried the mix of Playstation, controllers and cables into the bedroom. He dropped slowly onto the mattress while Wilson placed the equipment on top of the television.

“You’ll need to use the switcher box on this TV,” House directed from his seat. “Not enough auxiliary inputs.”

Wilson nodded and sorted through the cables again.

“Stacy says you slept pretty good last night,” he said as he reached around the back of the box.

“Slept like a baby,” House said. “Or at least a baby that’s been drugged into a coma. I’m still shaking cobwebs out of my head.” Wilson looked up at him and House looked away toward the window. “Thanks,” he said softly and turned back, but Wilson was looking back down at his work.

“You should be careful not to use it all the time,” Wilson said. “It can be pretty habit forming.”

“You know, I don’t know if I ever mentioned this, but it turns out I’m a doctor too.”

“Sorry,” Wilson said and stepped back k to sit next to House. “I guess giving out warnings is habit-forming too.”

“Why don’t you fire it up,” House said, nodding at the TV and game system. “We can make sure it’s all working.”

“There’s time for that later,” Wilson said. “When’s Anna supposed to be here?”

“Soon.” House leaned back onto his elbows. “Care to place any money on how long it takes her to express some fault in my behavior?”

“She’s not coming to rag on you,” Wilson said. “She wants to see how you’re doing.”

“I’ll lay even odds that she’ll start by pointing out how hard Stacy’s working to try and take care of me, and that I should learn to do more so Stacy can get back to her real job.”

Wilson just looked over at House. “What kind of money are we talking?”

“Twenty bucks if it’s in the first twenty minutes,” House offered. “Plus an extra ten if it’s in the first ten minutes.”

“Done.” Wilson held out his hand and House leaned over to shake it. “This will be an easy twenty bucks. She’s not some evil villain, House.”

“Hah,” House muttered. “I heard Disney based Cruella DeVil on her. This is going to be an easy thirty bucks for me.”

They both sat up as someone knocked on the front door.

“James?” Stacy called out from the kitchen. “Could you get the door for me? My hands are full.”

Anna and Wilson were walking slowly away from the door, in mid-conversation by the time House made it into the living room.

“...pleasant surprise,” she was saying. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“You know me. Any excuse to get some of Stacy’s cooking,” Wilson nodded toward House. “Greg was just complaining that I’ve been sponging off of them.”

“Not a complaint,” House said. “Just an observation.” He stood in the middle of the floor, hunched down on the crutches. “Hello, Anna. Have a nice drive?”

“The construction was awful,” she said. “All those people heading back from the shore, and the road down to only one lane. But that doesn’t matter.” She walked up to him, her traditional greeting of an air kiss missing by inches because he couldn’t lean all the way down toward her. “How are you feeling?”

House could see Stacy coming out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “I’m managing,” he said.

“Hi Mom,” Stacy said, stepping up next to House and leaning in to kiss Anna on the cheek. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“You look tired, sweetheart, are you getting any sleep?”

“I’m fine, Mom,” Stacy said.

“Greg, you shouldn’t let her work so hard. Now that you’re home, you should be able to make her take some time for herself. She’s got a lot of other work to do, you know.”

House just nodded and moved around Stacy to take his spot on the couch again. Wilson leaned down to scoop up the newspaper from the couch. “You’ll have to wait to collect until I hit the ATM,” he whispered. “I don’t have thirty bucks on me just now.”


---------------


House and Wilson left the table before Stacy had even pulled out dessert -- a simple cake she had made late that morning.

“You sure?” she said.

“I’ll have some later,” House said. “I just want to lie down for a while, if you can make do without me.”

It wasn’t completely a lie. He was tired, his leg was aching and his head was swimming from a mixture of the Vicodin and his screwed up sleep patterns. “Jimmy will keep me company,” he said, and headed back into the bedroom before Stacy’s mother could put up any argument.

House settled back against the headboard while Wilson closed the door and wheeled the TV up to the end of the bed. He tossed the controllers up toward House.

“Crap,” he said. “I forgot to get the games. Hang on a minute.”

House stopped him before he made it to the door. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got it covered.”

He reached into the night stand and tossed a box at Wilson. “I’ve been waiting for the right opportunity to play this.” Wilson turned the box over: Madden NFL 2001, released earlier that week.

“Nice. Stacy buy this for you?” He pulled the game out of the box and turned on the player.

“Nah. Turns out there’s this thing called the Internet and something else called home delivery, and something else called credit cards,” House said. He untangled the cord for his controller and tossed the other one to Wilson as he settled in on the mattress. “You’re the Titans.”

House dozed off before they’d finished a full game. Wilson had made an easier than expected touchdown and he was about to rag on House for playing lousy defense when he noticed House’s eyelids were sliding shut. He had tried to turn off the game then, but House had protested he was ready to go. Four plays later, he was sound asleep, the controller still clutched in his hands.

Wilson turned off the set and slid off the bed. He opened the door as quietly as he could, wincing at the sound of a squeak coming from the hinges, then gently closed it behind him.

He stood silently in the hallway for a moment, waiting to see if House would call him back. He could hear Stacy and her mother talking in the living room.

“I just hate to see you throwing your career away, that’s all,” Anna Adams was saying.

“God, Mother. I am not throwing anything away,” Stacy voice came out in an harsh whisper he had heard her use more than once on House when they were out in public. “I took a few days off to help Greg get settled. That’s all.”

“And this week?”

“This week I’m working from home for a few days. The key word being ‘working,’” Stacy said.

Wilson knew he should cough, say something, make some noise so they knew he was there. He didn’t. He wondered if House felt as guilty whenever he eavesdropped.

“Greg should realize that your career is important,” Anna said. “He’s going to hold you back just like he did two years ago when you didn’t take that partnership in Washington.”

“He doesn’t hold me back. And that decision was all mine.”

“So you keep saying.”

“I keep saying it because it’s the truth. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

“Maybe I don’t understand why it is he doesn’t want what’s best for you. That’s all I want,” she said. “Like why doesn’t he give you that big wedding you’ve always wanted.”

“You’re the one who always wanted that wedding, Mom, not me,” Stacy said. “I don’t need a priest ...”

Wilson stepped across into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He waited, counted to thirty, then to thirty again. He flushed the toilet, ran the water hard out of the faucet and made sure the door rattled as he opened it. When he walked out into the living room, Anna was sipping at her cup. Stacy turned to look at him.

“Hey,” she said. She looked pleased to see him there.

“Thought I’d sit with the adults for a while,” Wilson said and took a seat at the other end of the couch from where Stacy was sitting.

“Is Greg OK?”

“He’s fine, just getting some sleep.”

“Good.” Stacy picked up her mug and glanced down into it before standing. “Want some coffee? I made a fresh pot.”

“Sure, thanks.”

Anna looked at him once Stacy left the room. Wilson wondered if she could sense the guilt he felt for listening in on the conversation, but she said nothing.

“Here you go.” Stacy handed him a mug and she settled back down with her own mug in her hand. “You let him beat you on the new game?”

“We didn’t finish yet, but I was ahead at the half,” Wilson said. “You know he was probably just pretending to sleep so he could get in some practice before the final quarter.”

“He is sneaky that way, isn’t he,” Stacy said and smiled as she took a sip of the coffee. “Maybe I should peek in on him, catch him in the act.”

“I should get going,” Anna announced. She stood and placed her cup on the end table.

“Mom, don’t go yet. You barely got here.”

“No, no, I’m fine,” she said. “You kids have better things to do than listen to an old lady prattle on about things they don’t think are important.”

“Mom, that’s not a problem,” Stacy said. “And you haven’t had dessert. Why don’t you wait a little longer? Greg probably won’t sleep for long. He usually doesn’t during the afternoon.”

“No,” she said. “It’s a long drive, and there’s still all that construction to deal with.”

She walked over to Stacy, who stood and gave her a hug. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Anna looked around the room. “Now where did I put my purse?”

Wilson spotted it on the table near the door and walked over to get it for her. She kissed him on the cheek as he handed it over. “You always were a gentleman, James,” she said. “Someday you’ll find the right woman.”

He walked her to the door and held it open for her as she pulled her keys out of her purse. “All right, I’m ready,” she said. “Take care of yourselves, both of you.” She walked down the hallway and Wilson closed the door behind her.

Stacy flopped down across House’s favorite low-slung gaming chair, one that hadn’t been used for weeks. “Thank God,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong, James, I love my mother. I just can’t stand to be around her.”

“I’ve come to understand that’s a common disease,” he said. “And yet it’s been woefully underreported in all the medical journals.”

“I need chocolate,” Stacy said. “Do you need chocolate? No, wait. Men don’t need chocolate.”

“I don’t know about need,” Wilson said, “but I certainly wouldn’t turn it down.”

“Well there’s cake and ice cream in the kitchen, if you can give me a hand,” she said, and held out her hand to Wilson who took it and pulled her onto her feet.

They were perched on stools at the counter and Wilson had just cut himself another piece of cake when House entered the kitchen, blinking at the bright sunlight filling the room.

“Is the coast clear?” he asked.

“And you,” Stacy said, pointing her fork at him. “You were no help at all.”

House blinked again. “Sometimes retreat is the better part of valor,” he said. “Or so I’ve been told.” He moved a few feet into the kitchen. “You two leave me any of that?”

Thank you. It is terrific.

I shouldn't be reading this considering its probably way too spoilery but I just couldn't stop myself. Thanks, it was brilliant.

That's a great line - this has opening has a seriuos undercurrent and Stacy's mother will be fascinating. Love the tensions you've drawn and the detail-

That's a wonderful description. So much looking forward to seeing this unfold. Stacy's mother clearly had influence and it's inspired thinking to add to the character in this way.

Cheers!

Benj

I like it. And Stacy's mother, yikes, is she an old bag! I'd go hang out with the Playstation too.

The dialogue sounds really good.

No wonder House and Stacy are so screwed up. Nothing wrong with House that patricide could not fix and nothing wrong with Stacy that matricide would not fix.

What a GREAT story, Namaste, and a really good idea to build great writing on. Bravo! I can't wait to see what comes next.
Stacy in this story is spot on, and you've done House well as confused and recovering, not too much sarcasm. His frustration is very nice, if you like.

The new-injury awkwardness is spot-on - we can sense Stacy's awkwardness.. and gulit.

Too many good insights into relationships to quote in this- but I love this. Great little character comments!

I also love the classic awkward accidentally-eavesdropping scenario. An interesting one in this concept - Wilson, House.

I can't wait to see how this unfolds.

Keep it up, Namaste.

heh heh. Magdala, you're a one.
:D

Thanks all.

I was trying to channel some of the odd-ness post-rehab that Mark Zupan referred to in the documentary "Murderball" in which he talks about how weird it is getting home from rehab, with your life changed, and yet there are all these reminders of the old life around:
"Home isn't necessarily comforting. It gets to you inside."

The next chapter will be ready for a beta soon. With luck, I'll be able to post at least one chapter a week. (I wrote ahead through about four months of story just to make sure I'd be able to pull off the concept before I committed to it.)

We've moved on another month, and things aren't looking too good from Stacy's point of view.



SEPTEMBER



Stacy cracked open the bedroom door. She stood there for a moment, listening to the sounds inside the darkness. She heard nothing but deep breathing. She pushed the door open wider moving it quickly to avoid prolonging the squeak in the hinges . The beam of light from the hallway led the way across the hardwood floor to the far wall, and she followed it across the room.

She opened the closet door quickly and stepped inside before turning on the light. Her navy pumps were waiting in their usual spot on the shelves and she grabbed them, switching the light back off before she reached for the door knob.

She had taken to laying out her clothes in the spare room so she wouldn’t disturb Greg on the days he didn’t have any early appointments and could sleep in, but had forgotten the shoes the night before. Greg had crashed on the couch after PT yesterday afternoon, turning down dinner even when she made up a plate and brought it to him.

She had been getting her clothes ready before bed, double checking what she had in the spare room. Some of the staples in her wardrobe had already moved there permanently -- her favorite black suit, the cream-colored blazer, her Donna Karan red silk blouse -- since she wore them frequently. Besides, she had told Greg when she sorted through her closet one weekend, it would finally free up enough space for his things, so they wouldn’t be jammed into one small corner any more.

“You always say I don’t leave you enough room,” she said. “Now you’ll have room.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, the condition of my suits hasn’t been a prime concern of mine lately,” he said, and sulked off into the living room. She heard him slam down his crutches on the floor and the TV come on a moment later.

Last night, though, her nighttime ritual had been interrupted when she heard Greg in the kitchen, cupboards and drawers opening and closing, the beep of the microwave. She left him on his own until she heard a crash. She rushed in to find him trying to manipulate his crutches along with a broom. There was broken glass and a spreading spill of either water or 7-Up on the floor.

“Let me,” she said, and grabbed for the broom. He didn’t let go.

“I’ve got it,” he said.

Stacy pulled harder. “Greg, let me handle this. You get out of here before you slip and hurt yourself.”

Greg let go of the broom, but didn’t back away. “I’m not going to fall.”

Stacy scooped the broken glass into the dustpan and spread paper towels on the spill. “Greg just ...” She ran out of words and instead kneeled down to begin cleaning up the liquid, feeling the stickiness of a sugary blend. Soda then. Great. She tossed the paper towels into the trash and went into the pantry for the mop.

Greg hadn’t moved. “Just go and let me clean this up,” Stacy said. He stared at her for a moment longer, then moved off into the living room.

Stacy had mopped up the spill and cleaned the floor. Greg ignored her as she passed through the living room, and she slammed the bedroom door closed behind her, forgetting about the things she had been prepping in the other room. She had been nearly asleep when he finally came to bed hours later, making his way in the dark to his side of the bed.

Now it was early morning and she was the one moving through the dark. Stacy paused before heading back into the hall, watching the mound of blankets in the bed for any sign as to whether Greg was awake or not. She swore that once, not too long ago, she could tell when he was faking sleep. Lately she wasn’t so certain. Either she had lost her edge, or he had increased his skill at it to avoid unwanted questions.

This morning, she thought maybe he was still asleep. She walked quietly back across the floor, opened the door quickly once again and stepped out into the hall.

She stood for just a few seconds there -- her shoes in one hand, her other hand on the door knob. There was still no sound from the bedroom.

Stacy walked across the hall to the spare room. She sat on the edge of the bed and placed the shoes on the floor. She reached for a pair of pantyhose and began pulling them up, then cursed as she spotted a run in them and pulled them back off. She walked over to the dresser and grabbed a new pair from the drawer and sat down again. She smiled a little when she remembered how Greg had once tried to work out the math that would show once and for all whether she was better off buying nylons that wouldn’t snag as easily but were expensive, or ones that were more prone to run, but she could buy cheaply in bulk.

“I don’t care what the numbers say,” she had told him. “I like the feel of these better, and I can afford it.”

Now she finished putting on the new pair and stepped into her shoes. Stacy stood and checked her hair and makeup in the mirror before she opened the jewelry box. The box had been one of the first items she moved into the spare room. It was small, but easily held the few pieces she wore regularly. She looked through it in search of the silver and emerald earrings Greg had given her for her birthday two years ago.

Stacy spotted them next to her mother’s crucifix. She picked up the necklace and looked at it. She was not religious, and hadn’t been in a church except for weddings and funerals since she’d left home. It had been at least 10 years since even her mother had given up on trying to guilt her back into attending services.

Despite their difference in opinion on organized religion, though, Stacy still could admire the work that went into her mother’s piece -- the detail of the cross, the human face, even the crown of thorns visible on his bowed head. Her mother had given it to her shortly after Stacy had been accepted to Yale, following in her father’s footsteps, into his alma mater, and into his profession. It had come from Greece, the same islands Anna’s grandparents had lived in once upon a time.

“You are your father’s daughter,” Anna had said when she pressed the crucifix into Stacy’s hand. “But you’re mine as well. I want you to remember that.”

“As if you’d ever let me forget,” Stacy had said.

Stacy looked down at the necklace now in her hand. Anna would probably sympathize with Greg’s newest avoidance tactics. She was good enough at it herself. Heck, she could probably teach him some new angles.

There was a lot to admire in Anna Adams, but she also had one personality quirk that annoyed Stacy above all others: the need to take off whenever things seemed to get rough. Oh she was great at stirring up issues. She loved to drop her emotional bombs, but once the collateral damage started racking up from those explosions, she was long gone.

Stacy looked up from the necklace at the closed bedroom door across the hallway, then at her own collection of clothes that seemed to be growing in the spare room. She put the necklace back in the jewelry box and pulled out the earrings. She shook her head. This was different. She and Greg were just making adjustments. No one was going anywhere.

Except to the office.

Things had piled up during the time she took off from work to help Greg. Stacy had intended to still work from home a few days a week , but the paperwork seemed overwhelming. And once she was back in her own office, she found it easier to concentrate. At home, there were too many distractions. She’d barely start on a document, then hear Greg moving around and get up to check on him. Even when he was quiet -- watching television or sleeping -- her mind wandered.

At her office, she could focus on actual work. There was no one there to worry about, no one to interrupt her. She started going in earlier to get a jump on the day, then began leaving later just to finish up the last few tasks.

The paperwork was back under control now, but Stacy still was going in early most days, taking advantage of the quiet before the hospital’s halls began filling with patients and doctors.

She checked herself in the mirror one last time, then turned off the light and went out into the living room. The first hints of dawn were visible through the open curtains as she passed through and into kitchen.

She straightened up the newspaper on the table into one pile, then took her coffee mug over to the sink to dump the last few drops and rinse it out.

As she turned out the lights, she could see the red power light still glowing on the coffee maker. She fought the urge to turn it off, knowing it would automatically shut itself off in another hour. If Greg woke before that, the coffee would still be hot and ready for him.

Greg had complained when she turned it off when she first returned to work, saying he could always drink it when he got up.

“But you hate old coffee. You always make a fresh pot,” Stacy said. She wondered if there was something else prompting his complaint. “Honey, are you worried you won’t be able to ...”

“I’m perfectly capable of making a damn pot of coffee,” Greg said. “And I’m not that picky. I just don’t see a reason why we should make two pots in the morning just because I’m ... sleeping in.”

“Not picky? You spent weeks researching the right pot to get one that would brew at just the right temperature. We had to special order it.”

“Maybe I like old, warmed up coffee now.”

“Since when?”

“Since I decided to drink it that way, OK? Is that all right with you?”

Stacy had walked out of the room shaking her head and hadn’t bothered with turning off the coffee maker since then.

Stupid arguments, she thought and grabbed her bag on her way out the door. Stupid fights. She stepped out into the main hallway and locked the door behind her.

The fact that they had spent the last three months arguing shouldn’t have surprised her. They had quarreled from the day they met.

Stacy had heard all the stories about Greg even before she laid eyes on him, with various people she respected describing him as everything from a pure genius to a raving lunatic. She expected to be underwhelmed when they finally did meet. She had known plenty of overachievers -- had lived with them, worked with them, partied with them. Few ever lived up to the hype.

Greg did -- both the good and the bad.

They finally met when he broke into her office. She had come back from lunch to find the door open and someone sitting in her chair, calmly going through her desk drawers.

“Is there any reason I shouldn’t call security?” Stacy didn’t step into the room, instead staying safely at the doorway.

“Not really,” he said and closed the bottom right drawer before turning to her. “It might be kind of fun to hear you explain why it is you leave everything unlocked. It’s practically a signed invitation to anyone with a nefarious scheme in mind.”

“As opposed to whatever scheme you’ve got planned.”

“I don’t scheme. Waste of energy. I prefer efficiency -- like when I’m told I have to come down and sign some thingy, but there’s no one here. Now I could sit and wait -- but you know how precious a doctor’s time is. All those billable hours, gone. Or I could have come back, but you know, things sometimes slip my mind.”

“So instead you break in.”

“See? I knew you’d understand.”

Stacy felt like she spent their first date on the witness stand, being grilled by every attorney she’d ever met.

“Lame,” he said after she’d told him she had entered law school to emulate her father. “More like it was an attempt to get Daddy to notice you at all. Same college? Same law school? Tell me, did he even notice when you were hired out of law school to work for the White House Counsel’s office? Or did he just have his secretary send you a card?”

She was still figuring out how to respond when he continued. “Was Daddy disappointed that you worked in the Clinton administration, when he had the Kennedy White House on his CV? I’m sure he found it a bit of a letdown.”

She didn’t know which bothered her more -- the fact that he was more on target than she wanted to admit, or that he already knew more about her family than friends she’d known for years.

When she saw the envelope from him in the interoffice mail three days later, she nearly tossed it out without looking at it. Inside were two tickets to a performance of Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony in Philadelphia she faintly recalled mentioning in passing. The note inside mentioned she should use them so that she could actually enjoy herself the next time she went out.

“Why did you send me these?” Stacy asked when she found Greg at his apartment that night.

“Peace offering,” he said. “How did you find where I live?”

“Personnel records,” she said and pushed past him into the room. “What makes you think I’d ever want to go anywhere with you again?”

“See, it’s more efficient to break the rules,” he said. “And I believe I didn’t order you to bring me with you.”

“I’m the hospital’s attorney. I have a right to access those records. And if you didn’t expect me to invite you, then why send two?”

“But does that right extend to personal use of those records solely to badger your dates? And if I really wanted to be sneaky I would have just shown up unannounced in the seat next to you. This way you have a choice.”

“This isn’t badgering,” Stacy protested. “This is ... I don’t know what it is, but I’m not going to bring you.”

“I don’t expect you to. It’s been my experience that most women don’t stick around for a second date with me.”

“Then why give them to me?”

Greg shrugged. “I was hoping you were different.”

They spent the first weeks after she moved in feeling their way around each other. Polite conversations, requests, kind words. Everything was new and different, filled with promise and adventure.

Now it seemed like they were going through that mating ritual all over again, but rather than new and different, everything felt altered and foreign, tense and anxious.

Rather than kind words, it was arguments and fights. They seemed to clash now, when they used to meld into one single unit.

And they seemed to fight about everything. About what to watch on TV, about whether to turn the TV on at all. About what to eat, or whether Greg wanted to ignore everything she put on his plate. About whether he’d be ready in time for Stacy to pick him up during lunch so he wouldn’t be late for therapy or whether he’d done his exercises at home that day.

The one thing they didn’t fight about was the one subject she was afraid to bring up: his surgery -- the one he didn’t want and that she had approved. She had expected him to yell at her when he first woke up. Then thought maybe he was saving his energy until the next time he saw her. Then she thought that maybe he was just waiting until they were alone.

But he hadn’t said anything. Instead he would just look at her. Everything wordless and everything exposed in his eyes. He would wake up, feel the pain, reach for his pills and stare at her.

He’d force himself across the room and onto the couch after PT, his foot seeming to drag a little more after the hours of forced effort, and look up at her before raising his leg up onto the cushions.

Stacy found herself at the hospital, unable to remember any of the details of the drive there. She shook her head to try and clear it, then headed in through the main entrance and up to her office.

-------------

Three hours into the day, Stacy picked up her water glass and noticed it was empty again. She didn’t recall finishing it off, but then she had managed to work her way through more than five pages of notations for a revised brief since she arrived at her office. She checked her watch. Time enough for a break.

She saved the document on her laptop, then closed the cover and set the computer aside on the corner of her desk. She picked up the phone and hit the first saved number.

One ring. Two.

“Hello?” She could hear the faint sounds of something in the background. Probably the TV.

“Hi honey, how’s it’s going?”

“Did you know Rice-A-Roni costs $1.39 now?”

“I can’t say that crossed my mind, no.”

“When I was a kid and watched ‘Price Is Right’ with my Mom, it was only 33 cents.”

“When you were a kid, dinosaurs still roamed the earth.” She could hear the volume lowered on the television from Greg’s end of the line.

“Watch it. You’re older than me.”

“By six weeks,” she said and smiled. “Besides, I have a more youthful outlook.”

“Then why do you always tell me to stop acting like a 2-year-old?”

“Because it’d be both illegal and immoral to sleep with a 2-year-old, and I wouldn’t want you to ruin my stellar reputation.”

“All this concern about your reputation, what about ...” he stopped in mid sentence and she could hear him catch his breath.

“Honey?” He didn’t answer. “Greg? Honey?”

“I’m OK.” The words sounded strained, forced.

“No you’re not. What’s wrong?” Stacy wondered if she should take an early lunch. She quickly considered what she’d need if she needed to work from home for the rest of the day.

“It’s OK.” His voice was stronger now. “It’s better.”

Stacy could hear his breathing even out and the faint movements of him shifting position on the couch. “Did you take your pills this morning?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Greg?”

“I took what I needed.”

Right then. This again. “Honey, you know the Vicodin works better if you stick to a regular schedule.”

“You may not realize this, but I do know what I’m doing.”

“Look, I’m just ...”

“Trying to tell me what to do again.”

“No I’m not,” she protested. “I just hate to see you in pain.”

“Too late for that, isn’t it.”

Stacy didn’t know what to say to that. She closed her eyes and listened to the silence on the other end of the phone.

“I don’t want to fight,” she finally said.

“At least we can agree on that.”

They were both quiet again. Stacy took a breath and held it for a moment. She picked up her pen. “I just wanted to let you know that things are kind of crazy around here this morning,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll be able to take a break and stop by at lunch.”

“I think I can manage to fend for myself,” he said. “You going to be working late too?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She wondered if he knew that her work load had finally eased up. It wouldn’t surprise her if he did, but he hadn’t called her on the lie.

“OK,” he said. “I’ll try to stick around here in case you need to reach me later.”

“OK,” she said. “And I’ll be here if you need me. I love you.”

Stacy sensed a slight pause before Greg replied. “Love you too,” he said. She could hear the TV volume pick up again just before he hung up. She put the handset back into the cradle and stared at the phone for a moment, the black plastic, the gray number pad, the blinking red light signaling a waiting voice mail. She turned away from the phone and stood, grabbing her blazer.

She pulled one cigarette from the pack she kept stashed in the back of the center drawer, hidden under some envelopes. She put it in her pocket and grabbed a book of matches from another drawer. She had thought about buying a disposable lighter the last time she bought a pack at the nearby Wawa, but didn’t. She kept telling herself that the cigarettes were just a temporary thing. A stress reliever. Investing in even a cheap lighter felt too permanent.

Stacy made a quick stop in the bathroom before she headed back down the hall and outside. The roof was a popular smoking break site for the orderlies and residents, the entrance near the ER favored by the attendings and nurses who didn’t care who saw them flout the health warnings on every pack.

When she had time, Stacy would walk out along the winding path next to the hospital where there were benches hidden among the trees and she could sneak a smoke with no one seeing her. This time she went out a side entrance and around to the loading docks at the back of the hospital, where the only ones who might see her were either delivery truck drivers or maintenance crew workers who might know her face, but not her name.

-------------

Stacy had lunch at her desk, flipping idly through a magazine as she ate her soup.

She set it aside when a knock came at the door shortly before 1 p.m. “Come in,” she called.

The door cracked open and James poked his head in. “Hey,” he said. “You got a second? Greg said you were working through lunch, but I was thinking if you could take a break ...”

“Come on in, I’m good for now.” Stacy waved him in. “I’m just waiting for a call.” She wondered when she’d gotten so comfortable lying to people she cared about.

“I can come back,” he offered.

“No, no. Have a seat.” She swallowed the last of the soup as he sat, then tossed the container into the trash. “When did you talk to Greg?”

“A few minutes ago. I didn’t see you around the cafeteria at your normal time, and I thought maybe you’d gone to have lunch with him.”

Stacy leaned back in her chair. “Have I become that predictable?”

James smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep your secret.” He handed her a cream-colored envelope before settling into his chair. “It’s from Julie. She wanted to thank you again for dinner on Saturday.”

“Greg didn’t scare her off?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s early,” Stacy said. “And he was on his best behavior.”

“You’ll have to tell her that. She accused me of making it all up.”

“I’m surprised you’d want to even consider risking exposing your dates to Greg so early in your relationship,” she said.

James shrugged. “I’m thinking of using him as an early warning system: the House test.”

Stacy looked him over. “Please don’t tell me you’re thinking you need to get his approval of your dates.”

“God no,” James shook his head. “If I were to wait until he approves of anyone, I might as well consider converting and joining the priesthood.” He shuddered a bit. “I just figure that any woman that doesn’t dump me after meeting my best friend may be a keeper.”

Stacy had been surprised when James asked about bringing a date with him to dinner on Saturday. Julie had been a surprise too. She came from enough money that she could have had an easy life, but instead took advantage of her personal financial security to take on work as a speech therapist for a handful of poor rural and urban school districts that otherwise would not have been able to afford to bring one on staff.

Stacy had already nursed James through two tough divorces. Maybe someone like Julie could finally deal with the fact that getting involved with him would mean committing to a man whose first commitment would always be to medicine.

In truth, it had been Greg doing the nursing. Stacy hadn’t known James well before his first divorce. It was only in the lonely months after his first wife split -- when he kept showing up at home with Greg at the end of a long day to relax over drinks and lousy movies -- that he became a fixture in both of their lives.

On the day his second marriage entered its final free fall, he showed up at their doorstep. Stacy had encouraged him to open up, though he never did -- at least to her.

“Of course he’s not going to go all emotional on you,” Greg had said. “Here’s a news flash for you, Stace: Wilson is a guy.”

“So what, he doesn’t feel the same things a woman does?”

“This isn’t some Mars or Venus thing, for God’s sake, it’s just that guys have a different way of dealing with things -- or not dealing with things, whatever.” He pulled two beers out of the fridge.

“But he’ll talk to you, because you’re a guy.”

“If he talks to me, it’ll be because I’m his friend. And a guy. And I have alcohol.” He headed back out toward their perches in front of the TV and Playstation where he and James had spent the past few hours. while she floated between her desk in the spare room and the kitchen. “Trust me on this. I’m a guy too.”

Stacy paused in her memories, considering what Greg had said. She looked over at James as he sat across the desk from her.

“You OK?” he asked.

“Sorry,” she said. “Just lost in thought, I guess.”

“I really need to let you get back to your work.” James stood, turned toward the door.

“No, James, wait a minute. I was thinking.” She paused, wondering how to bring up the topic., then decided to plunge right in. “I’m worried about Greg.”

James sat down again. “Something new or an old issue?”

“Like we need more issues on the table,” she muttered, and he smiled. “The pain isn’t going to get any better, is it?”

James blew out a breath and shook his head. “I don’t think so, no.” He looked her in the eye. “And I’m pretty sure he knows that too.”

Stacy stared down at the notes spread across her desk. “He hates taking the pills.” She ran her fingers across the raised letterhead on one of the papers. “I think he hates feeling like they’re in control. He won’t stick to a schedule. He waits to take anything until the pain gets really bad, then by the time he does take them, it’s like they can barely put a dent into it.”

She was surprised and frustrated to feel tears rise again. She used to think of herself as a rock, never shaken -- at least not in public. Now she seemed incapable of keeping any emotions under control. She took a deep breath and wiped the corners of her eyes with her fingertips. She looked up to see James standing there, handing her a tissue.

“It’s another adjustment he’s got to learn how to make,” he said. “And we both know how he hates having to change for anyone or anything.”

“I was thinking you could talk to him, get him to be smart.” Stacy wiped her eyes and James leaned back against her desk, his arms crossed over his chest.

“It’s not that simple, Stacy,” he said. “Pain management is a tricky thing. Everybody’s got to find what works for him. Greg’s got to have time to work that out for himself.”

“But you could get him to see sense, get him to be smarter about it.”

James shook his head. “Stacy, I don’t ...”

“Please, James. I hate seeing him in pain and he won’t listen to me. He fights everything I tell him, even when he knows it’s for his own good.” She looked away from James, down at the corner of the desk , the tears surfacing again. “It’s like we keep having just one damn argument, over and over again, ever since the surgery.”

“Stacy,” James leaned down to her, his hand on her shoulder. “He still loves you. He’s not blaming you for what happened.”

“That’s what you keep saying.”

“And what does Greg say?”

“Nothing. He won’t talk about it, and every time I try to, it’s the same old story. He shuts down. He leaves the room. He changes the subject.” She turned to James, his face slightly below hers now. “Does he talk to you about it?”

“It hasn’t come up.” He leaned back against the desk once more.

“Not even in passing?”

James shrugged. “We’ve been .... busy.”

“New video games?”

“And he’s trying to talk me into betting on how quickly the Yankees will clinch the pennant.” He smiled as Stacy chuckled in spite of herself.

“He hates the Yankees.”

“But he loves a good bet,” James said. “Or any bet.”

Stacy chuckled again and dried her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to go all weepy on you.”

“Don’t worry about it. You going to be OK?”

Stacy shrugged. “I guess so. I should let you get back to work. And I guess I should do some myself too.”

“I know it seems like forever, but it’s only been a few months,” James said. “We just need to give him a little longer to adjust and trust that he knows what he’s doing.” He pushed himself away from the desk and squeezed her shoulder again. She laid her hand on top of his for a moment. “You’re both going to make it. I know you will.”

She took her hand down and he gave one more squeeze before he walked across the room again. He paused at the door and looked back her way. “I tell you what. I promise I’ll keep an eye on his meds for you. Don’t worry. I’ll step in if he needs something different than what he’s been getting.”

Stacy nodded. “Thanks. You’re a good friend, James.”

“So are you. Both of you.”

He stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him, the latch clicking into place, leaving Stacy sitting alone in the quiet.

Great installment Namaste. The story's under way and going good. Well done.

I love the dialogue, especially between Stacy and House...

You've really captured the characters and the way that they interact with each other - they fit together nicely.

Beautiful imagery here.
All in all, very well done. This is a great story, really capturing the characters and the time. Reel us in then break our hearts, Namaste. It's a keeper.

That's some triangle of personalities and I love the angles- Stacy thinking about the similarites between House and her mother and the paralells within her.

Nice update and looking forard to seeing where you take it next- cheers!

Benj

OCTOBER


“Greg? You need any help in there?”

House didn’t answer. He knew Stacy would either ask again or come looking for him. Possibly both. Instead he concentrated on the knot that had worked itself into his shoelace. He tried to force his fingernails under one side of the knot, then gave up and tried to loosen the other.

He’d first found the knot the night before when he got undressed. He had tried to loosen it then, but his leg had been acting up all day, and protested the amount of time he had sat there, bent over it. He’d finally just given up and pulled the shoe off of his right foot and tossed it into the closet.

“Greg?” Stacy’s voice came from somewhere in the hallway. She had been in the kitchen the first time.

“I’m OK,” he called back. No reason to start a fight over something as simple as this. It had actually been more than two weeks since their last major quarrel -- with no real blood drawn since his parents had visited.

Maybe it was the one good thing that had come from that long weekend as he and Stacy united against a common enemy: his father. When John House had suggested that maybe Greg was still on the crutches because he wasn’t following the therapists’ instructions, Stacy had come to his defense.

“If he’d just been doing everything the therapists wanted, he might still be in a wheelchair,” she’d said. “He’s working harder than you could ever imagine.”

His father had no response.

“You’ve always worked hard for everything you’ve ever wanted,” his mother had said.

That night, after they were alone, Stacy had brought them both a glass of wine.

“I need it,” she said. “And I didn’t feel like drinking alone.”

Maybe their victory over the old warrior had finally joined them into some kind of a truce.

Oh, they’d still bicker -- just as always -- but now the edges had finally worn smooth. They were almost comfortable. Stacy no longer seemed as brittle as she had been. She had cut back on the number of cigarettes she’d sneak,, and seemed to finally trust him to handle his own meds. And somehow he was even finding it easier to look at her and not think about the decision she’d made.

For months, House had tried to tell himself that there were others far more at fault than Stacy for what had happened -- the original clinic doctor, those involved in the follow-ups, Cuddy, even himself. But the others weren’t here, and he was finding it easy to avoid looking at himself in the mirror. Stacy was there. Every day. He tried to tell himself he didn’t really blame Stacy for what had happened, but he couldn’t quite seem to get past the anger either, despite this new détente.

And he wanted to get past it. He wanted to lay the blame elsewhere. He wanted things to go back to the way they were. He wanted the two of them to go back to the way they had been.

He had never expected things to be perfect -- even before the infarction -- but now he was just hoping that somehow everything could go back to normal.

But things weren’t normal. They never could be again. Everything normal had been cut out of his life and turned into ash and dust in the medical incinerator along with that dead piece of his thigh muscle.

But sometimes he could begin to sense something of the way things had been before.

There were evenings when Stacy would set aside her work and sit beside him. Nights when she would point out some shadowed face in the crowd from the TV news footage at a campaign event. She’d lean over and share some tidbit from her days in D.C. of life inside the political bubble -- knowing how he loved gossip and knowing how her stories of scandals had always made him laugh.

There were days when he’d find something interesting in a journal article, link it to the the details of some past case and begin to see the outlines of a new approach to diagnosing an illness or treating one. There were days he’d get a call or e-mail from an old colleague looking for information -- days when he could forget himself and concentrate on the problem.

And there were nights when he and Stacy would wrap themselves around each other, finding new ways their bodies could fit together.

But now it was morning, and House found himself wondering again if today would be the day that new sense of normality would shatter.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, the shoe on his lap, House could hear Stacy’s steps in the hall, then sense her presence in the bedroom even before she spoke.

“What’s taking so long this time?” she asked from the doorway.

He held up his shoe.

“I think we need to hire an exorcist,” he said. “Something has been sneaking into the closet and messing with my shoes again.”

“Well you know, we could always have my mother stay for a few days.” Stacy took the shoe from him and studied the knot. “She’d be bound to scare off all those demons you’ve got keeping the skeletons company in the closet.”

“Never mind the demons. I’ll leave.”

“Coward.” She handed the shoe back to him.

“What, you’re not even going to try?” House still held it out to her. “Fingernails like those ought to make short work of this puny knot.”

“Fingernails like these aren’t worth breaking for your Nikes,” she said.

Stacy went in the closet and House returned his attention to the knot.

“Here,” she said, walking out from the closet with another pair of shoes in her hands. “Wear these instead.”

House glanced at them, then looked away. “They don’t match my outfit,” he said. The last time he’d worn those had been three days before his leg began aching, during a long run out on the trails with Wilson.

Stacy looked them over. “There’s nothing wrong with them, come on.”

“I’ve nearly got this,” he said.

“We’re going to be late,” Stacy said.

“You’re going to be late. I’ve got plenty of time.”

“You’ve got your blood tests scheduled for first thing this morning, then an appointment in ortho.”

“I know that. I’m not an idiot,” he said and looked back down at the lace. “But I go in with you and I’m stuck twiddling my thumbs for an hour before the labs open -- then there’s another two hours to kill until PT.”

“You could hang out with James.” Stacy still held his running shoes out to him.

House shrugged. “He’s got rounds. No one wants to miss rounds.” He could still remember the morning shortly after surgery when he’d woken groggy from the meds to find a collection of students and residents crowding into his room.

“Just put these on, and let’s go,” Stacy said. “I don’t want to be late.”

House glanced down at the shoe in his lap again and smiled as the knot finally came loose. “Hah!” He looked up at Stacy. “And you doubted me.”

“Fine. All is right in the world. Just put them on, and let’s go.”

House pushed himself up from the bed and took one of the two crutches leaning against the wall to his left. “Got to pee,” he said. “I’ll be just a minute -- unless you’d rather go on without me. Don’t worry. I’ll call a cab.”

He didn’t need to see Stacy to know her reaction as he set off for the bathroom using just the one crutch under his right arm. He’d been proud when he found he could make it a few steps around the condo without the hassle of handling both crutches. Stacy considered it an unnecessary risk, but at least she had stopped the verbal nagging -- instead using body language to make her point quite clear.

He could write a dictionary defining her moods based on the way she held herself -- how she rolled her eyes, the way she’d tap her fingers or toes, the cross of her arms and the tilt of her head. And each movement seemed to signal to him that somewhere, deep down, something was still off-balance with her, and with them, despite every temptation to find comfort in their new routines.

“This is your two-minute warning, Greg,” she called through the door. “I am not about to field calls from every department asking why you’re not there.”

Thirty minutes later, she was wishing she had let him have his own way.

“Would you just sit there and be quiet? Read or something, would you?”

“I didn’t bring anything to read. You got anything good?”

“Law books. Lots of them. Which I need to go through.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Then go get something from the gift shop.”

“What, and give up all this close personal attention I’m getting now?”

The phone rang before she could respond. She recognized the incoming number on the display. “Great,” she said. “Now my morning is complete.” She picked up the handset. “Hi Mom.”

House watched her lean down towards the phone, propping her head up on one elbow.

“This weekend? I think we’re busy.”

House leaned back against the cushions and stared up at the ceiling. There was a water spot there -- a brown discoloration that had seeped halfway across the white acoustic tile. He tried to remember what was above Stacy’s office, and wondered where the spill came from.

“Yes, I know I haven’t been over to visit, but you know I’ve been tied up with a couple of cases,” Stacy said.

Pediatrics used to be somewhere up there, before it moved into the new wing, House recalled.

“Mom, I’m sorry, but can I call you back?” Stacy said.

House thought about heading upstairs before his appointment with Simpson and see what was directly above Stacy’s office, but remembered he’d have to pass the infectious diseases office -- his office -- on the way there. Midmorning they’d just be finishing up a staff meeting, everyone spreading out through the halls -- a gantlet of fake smiles and useless exchanges of well wishes and pleasantries.

House pulled the Game Boy out of his backpack and turned it on, the beeps bouncing off the walls of the small office.

“Mom, this really isn’t a good time.” Stacy was looking at him, so House looked back down at his screen. “Yes, I’ll remember to call. Tonight, OK? I’ll call tonight after dinner.”

He heard her hang up the phone. “Hey, I know. They’ve got magazines down in the waiting room.”

“Read them all.”

Stacy crossed the room to where he sat on the couch in a few short steps. She grabbed the Game Boy from his hands before he could react and stood there looking down at him. “Go read them again.”

“I wasn’t done with that,” he said and held out his hand.

Stacy went back to her desk and tossed the game into a drawer. “Consider it a hostage. Behave yourself today, and I’ll think about giving it back.”

“I could just order another one, you know.”

“But that’ll take days to get here. Which means that this morning? Pure peace and quiet.”

“Fine, fine.” He grabbed the crutches and stood, then grabbed his bag. “I’ll know if you’re just hogging it to try and beat your best score, though.”

“Go. Now.”

“Going.”

He opened the door and was turning to pull it closed when she looked up at him again. “Greg? I’ll pick you up after PT. Wait for me there.”

“Don’t worry. I think I can remember the routine.”

------------

Four hours later, House was waiting on the bench just inside the main entrance to rehab. His muscles were still trembling -- in his good leg, in his bad leg, in his arms. His shoulders still burned from the exertion, and now the fine layer of sweat beneath his t-shirt and sweats was beginning to cool, leaving him cold.

He reached into his bag and grabbed his jacket. He pulled it on and zipped it up, trying to draw some warmth from the thick fabric.

He fumbled with one of the side pockets on the bag and pulled out his pill bottle, shaking a Vicodin into his hand. If he took one now, it should just about kick in by the time he got home and could crash on the couch. Another reach inside the bag and he had a small water bottle. It had taken him weeks to get used to carrying the damn pills, and then found himself high and dry one day when he didn’t have anything on hand to wash them down with. Ever since he’d taken to stashing water in his pack.

House swallowed the pill and a few gulps of water, then leaned back against the wall and tried to relax his muscles, naming each one as it shivered and shook.

He wished he had brought his CD player so he had something to listen to. He wished Stacy hadn’t stolen his Game Boy. He wished she would show up already .

House heard a familiar step in the hallway just before the door opened. He looked up.

“I didn’t think I pissed her off that much,” he said as Wilson entered the room.

“What?”

“Stacy. I know she was upset this morning, but I didn’t think she’d just dump me on you.”

“House, wait.” Wilson held his hand up. “Stacy got a call maybe two hours ago. It’s her Mom -- a massive stroke, probably some intra-cranial bleeding from the first reports.”

House sat up. “Is she...”

“She’s still hanging in there, last I heard. I talked to the doctor over at Shore Memorial for Stacy, but it doesn’t look good.”

House pushed himself forward and handed his bag to Wilson before reaching toward the crutches. “Stacy still here or is she packing some bags back at home?”

“No, she’s ... she left,” Wilson sat on the bench to House’s left. “She said she tried to page you ...”

“You can’t hear the pages in there,” House said, nodding back at the therapy room. “At least I’ve never heard them.” He leaned back again. “But why didn’t she just come by and tell me? Why didn’t she send someone? I would have gone with her.”

Wilson shrugged and set House’s bag on the floor between his feet. “I don’t know. I don’t think she was thinking about too clearly just then. Cuddy said she just grabbed all the papers from her desk and stuffed them into her bag, insisting that they were important. She called me maybe fifteen minutes ago and asked me to come by and pick you up.”

“So she remembered her work, and not me?”

“Hell, I don’t know, House. Like I said, she wasn’t thinking about anything too clearly except the fastest route to Somers Point. You know her. She starts thinking of a plan of attack and nothing can change her mind.”

House nodded. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.” He rubbed at his leg, the pain continuing to build. He should have taken the Vicodin earlier. “OK. I guess I’ll pack some stuff for both of us.” He started to think about what they’d need before the thought struck him that he needed a way to get there.

“Stacy was thinking you should stick around home for now,” Wilson said. “She wasn’t too certain how crazy everything would be, and she didn’t want you to miss any appointments.”

“They can wait.”

“I know,” Wilson said. “That’s what I told her, but you know ... plan of attack and all. She said she’d call you at home later.” He picked up the bag again, moving it up to his lap. “I’d take you myself, but ...”

“That’s OK. You’ve got the ... thing.”

“Yeah, the thing,” Wilson said with a slight chuckle. “With the people.” He stood and shouldered the pack. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

House shrugged, grabbed the crutches and pushed himself up. “Grab that for me, will you?” He nodded back down toward the spot where his crutches had been. A silver aluminum cane was leaning against the wall.

“Hey, this is new, isn’t it?” Wilson smiled. “Fantastic.”

“Don’t get carried away,” House warned. “It’s just a trial run, for around the house. See how it works.”

Wilson picked it up, looking from it to House and back, still smiling.

“Besides, it’s too damned ugly to take out into public,” House said.

“I think it’s beautiful,” Wilson said.

“Watch what you say or Julie will get jealous.”

“I don’t care.” Wilson pushed open the door and waited for House to pass through. “I’m out in the visitor lot,” he said, then matched his speed to House’s as they headed toward the main hallway.

“Hey, does Stacy know?”

“Know what?”

“About the cane.” Wilson held open another set of doors for House as they made their way toward the clinic waiting room.

“Not yet,” House said. “I thought I’d surprise her.” He shook his head. “Sounds stupid, doesn’t it.”

“No it doesn’t,” Wilson said. “And you still can surprise her. It just might have to wait a few hours is all. That’ll give you time to practice.”

They stepped out into the gray fall afternoon. “Wait here. I’ll be right back with the car,” Wilson said and trotted off into the parking lot, House’s bag bouncing on his shoulder the cane held tightly in his right hand.

“Not like I’m wanted anywhere else,” House mumbled and leaned against the brick wall.

---------

House startled awake as the telephone rang. He hadn’t planned to fall asleep. He’d grabbed the cordless phone and a phone book as soon as he got home and started making calls, checking out the best way to get himself to Somers Point. But the Vicodin and hours of PT both hit him once he settled himself on the couch.

The phone rang again and he grabbed it, hitting the power button.

“’lo?”

“I woke you up, didn’t I,” Stacy’s voice was on the other end of the line. She sounded tired and worried. It was a tone he’d never heard from her before the infarction, but one that he now heard even in his dreams.

“It’s OK. How’s your mom doing?” House shoved himself back until he was sitting up with his back against the armrest.

“Not good. They’ve got her on a ventilator.”

House nodded, though he knew Stacy couldn’t see him.

“One of the neighbors found her,” Stacy was saying. “God, Greg, I keep thinking that I should have been there. I should have talked to her this morning, I might have been able to ...

“You don’t know that,” he said. “You shouldn’t try to take the blame for everything that happens, you know.”

“Just some things,” she said.

House didn’t bother trying to argue with her about it. “Why don’t you have me talk to her doctor. Is he around?”

“Not just now, but he said he’d be back soon. Something about taking her in for a repeat CT scan.”

House nodded again. “They want to get a better handle on her condition,” he said.

“That sounds right,” she sighed. “It’s hard to keep it all straight sometimes. Things get so ...”

“Confusing?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I might call you next time he comes with an update, and let you talk to him.”

“I definitely want to talk to him,” he said. “We need to make sure he’s not another run-of-the-mill idiot.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring, Greg.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be.”

“Greg ...” Stacy didn’t bother finishing whatever it was she was going to say.

“Listen. I made some calls and found a service that’ll drive me down first thing in the morning,” House said.

“I don’t know ...”

“Don’t worry, it’s not like we can’t afford it.” The metro town car wouldn’t be cheap, but it’d be easier to stretch out in the back seat of the full-size sedan than the Impala the cab service would probably send.

“It’s not that.” Stacy took a breath and House could hear the usual background chatter of a nurse’s station.

“Come on Stace, you don’t need to be going through this alone,” House said. “Sickness and health and all that, you know.”

“We’re not married.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

House sat up the rest of the way, swinging his left leg off the couch. “Do you not want me there?”

“Of course I want you here,” she said. “But it’s crazy here, you know how it is. You’d miss PT, you wouldn’t be able to get any rest ...”

“Stacy, I’m not fragile. I won’t break apart if someone looks at me the wrong way or I don’t get my nap.”

“Greg, please. I can’t deal with this and worry about you at the same time.”

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I just ... I can’t have this conversation now, just trust me, OK?”

House managed to stop himself from commenting on the last time he’d trusted her. He could hear her walk away from the nurses station. He heard the sound of a door opening, then closing. Even through the cell phone connection he could hear the sound of her footsteps echoing, and he guessed she had retreated to a stairwell for some privacy. He wondered if she was crying.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll cancel the car for now, but I want you to hook me up with her doctor, next time you see him, or I’ll track him down myself, OK?”

House could heard Stacy sniff and heard the rustle of something soft. Definitely crying. He leaned back again into the thick couch cushions. He thought about shifting his leg over onto the floor, but knew how painful the move could be, and didn’t want to risk giving away anything that might let Stacy know.

“OK,” she said. She sniffed again. “How’d therapy go today?”

“Oh, I ran them into the ground. Left them exhausted and crying uncle,” he said. “The usual.” He looked over at where the cane was lying on the floor, next to the crutches.

Stacy seemed to laugh at little at that. “You really should take it easy on them, you know. They’re mere mortals, unlike you.”

“Nah. They’re my sworn enemies. Never give up. Never surrender.”

This time it was a full chuckle. House smiled a little at her reaction.

“You know I love you, right?” she said.

“You too,” he said.

She was silent for a moment, then he could hear her shift, heard the sound of her footsteps echoing again. “I want to get back in there.”

“OK,” House said. “I’ll be here.”

“Oh, Greg, can you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Send me my crucifix, would you?”

“Think she’s going to ask you about it when she wakes up?”

“Of course not,” she said. “I just want it.”

But not me, he thought.

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll get it out in an overnight package, if that’s OK. Want me to send it to your mom’s place or the hospital?”

“Um, I don’t ... I don’t know. Maybe my Mom’s? But if I’m not there ...”

“Don’t worry about it,” House interrupted. “I’ll figure it out. I’m sure Wilson knows someone there he can have it sent to as a favor. I’ll let you know where you can pick it up.”

“OK. Thanks.”

He could hear her walk back through the door and out into the busy corridor.

“You want me to send anything else, or were you planning on going nude to set off the crucifix even better?”

“Funny,” she said. “You’re a funny guy. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“They’re usually too busy telling me to shut the hell up. I don’t know why, I have a highly refined sense of humor, at least that’s what all the strippers tell me. I remember this one time ...”

“Greg, shut the hell up.”

“Now that sounds familiar,” House said. “So, clothes? Or should I tell Wilson’s friend to take pictures?”

“I think I’ll be OK,” she said. “I’ve got my gym bag in the car, and I can grab a few things at the store if I need them.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Because we could make some decent cash under the table with a little nudity -- you know, the artsy kind of nudity. Very artistic.”

She chuckled again briefly. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be turning off my phone, but I’ll call you later, OK?”

“Sure,” he said. “Fine.”

“Greg? You sure you’re OK?”

“Fine,” he said. “Go talk to your Mom. Tell her hello for me.”

“OK. Bye.”

She cut the connection and House put the phone on the end table. He took a deep breath and finally moved his leg down off the couch and onto the floor. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling as he waited for the pain to ease.

When he checked his watch it read 4:17 p.m. He still had time to get the crucifix to a delivery place. He grabbed for the phone again, and punched a familiar set of numbers with his thumb.

“Wilson,” he said. “Got a job for you.”

Great one Namaste! This story is still going wonderfully.

I Love this-

The characters are spot on - and we've seen them in everyday life and out of the ordinary.
I love the bit with House in Stacy's office, especially the dialogue, and House looking at the ceiling...

This was a great idea, combined with great writing. The serial nature of the story is brilliant, especially he way we see the characters, House's injury, etc transform.

Great one!

The 'shoe' exchange works on so many levels and this is a great image -

Stacy's mother getting sick pulls the focus out to the bigger picture and alters the perspective and balance in a really interesting twist. The potential to 'compare and contrast' in this sitaution is fascinating and it sets up beautifully.

Cheers

Benj

Thanks for the feedback guys. And I'm glad you liked that line, Benj. That occurred to me during one morning's commute and I kept fine tuning it.
Now to continue:



NOVEMBER



Wilson’s newest patient gathered her things from an empty chair in his office: coat, scarf, gloves. She put her notebook into a large canvas bag along with the pamphlets he had given her. He could see a few notes she had scribbled across one white page.

“I know it all seems overwhelming now, but we can get this under control,” he told her. She still had that shocked look on her face that most people did when he first saw them. “We’ve caught this at a very early stage, and it’s highly treatable.”

She put on her coat and then held out her hand to shake his.

“Thanks,” she said.

“I know this sounds impossible, but try not to get too worried,” Wilson said. He shook her hand, then walked her across the room. “We’ve got a rough couple of months up ahead, but everything looks really good in the long term.”

She nodded and he opened the door for her, then watched her cross through the outer office.

“Dr. Wilson? Call for you on line three.” Wilson nodded to acknowledge the department’s admin assistant sitting at the desk to his left. “It’s Dr. House’s wife. Should I take a message?”

Wilson sighed. Carol was a good person, but probably should have retired years ago. She had gotten it into her head that House and Stacy were married, and he’d long ago stopped trying to convince her otherwise.

“Can you take it or do you want me to take a message?”

“I’ve got it, Carol,” he said. “Thanks.”

He stepped back into his office, closed the door behind him and sat behind his desk, hitting the connection for the line. He didn’t recognize the number on the display.

“Hi Stacy,” he said.

“Hello James. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Wilson leaned back in his chair. “No, it’s fine,” he said. “I just finished with a patient, and now I’ve got an excuse to avoid paperwork. How are you holding up?”

He could hear her blow out a breath. “I have come to the conclusion that I am no longer in control of my own life,” she said.

He smiled a little. “I highly doubt that. You’re the most ‘in control’ person I’ve ever met. Heck, you even keep Greg in line.”

“All I can do with Greg is keep him on a leash. He still finds a way to create havoc no matter what I do.”

“And yet you love him despite that.”

“Sometimes,” she said. Wilson tried to convince himself that she was just joking but he didn’t hear an amused tone to her voice.

Stacy had headed to Somers Point after work on Thursday to meet with the attorneys and real estate agents regarding her mother’s property. It had been not quite a month since the funeral, and Stacy said it was time to start thinking about what came next.

“Don’t feel like you have to rush,” Wilson had told her

“I’m not going to rush, but someone has to make the decisions. I’m the only child. If I don’t do something soon, my cousins will just declare that I can’t make decisions for myself and begin bickering over who gets the furniture. I’d better at least start to make some plans,” she said.

Stacy had hoped to get much of the official paperwork handled right away. “I’ve got some filings that I have to get over to probate, and Mom’s attorney won’t have them drawn up until Monday at the earliest,” she told Wilson now. “I want to interview some more realtors, but I think half of them are preparing open houses and the other half have given up on the prospect of selling anything for the next two months and gone out of town on a pre-Thanksgiving break.”

“I thought you were going to wait until the start of summer to put the house up for sale,” Wilson said.

“I am, but I don’t even know what it would bring in the current market,” she said. “My parents owned it for more than 30 years, and I don’t know if it’s worth doing some updating or if I should hang onto it for a while or just toss it out onto the market and see what happens.”

“You’re thinking of hanging onto it now?” Wilson sat up.

This was something new. Stacy had always claimed she didn’t care for the shore house -- too big, too traditional, too stuffy. It was filled with either the delicate antiques passed down through her father’s family or what she had termed the “ethnic kitsch” of her mother’s. When the day came, she had often said, she would sell it off and split the cash between a condo in the mountains and a smaller place on the beach further south, where the water was warmer and her cousins were thousands of miles away.

“Don’t be ridiculous, James,” she voice said now over the phone line. “I’m not talking about anything long-term, but I was talking to one agent who suggested turning into an income property -- you know, rent it out as a weekly vacation place.”

“Wouldn’t that mean you’d have to spent more time over there looking after it?”

“Not necessarily,” Stacy said. “I could hire a management company to keep track of things.”

“But I thought you said you wanted to take care of everything now. Get it all over with quickly,” he said.

“I know, I know, but there’s so much here I have to go through,” Stacy said. “My Mom never even cleaned out my Dad’s office. He’s got letters here from Bobby Kennedy dealing with his work down south that were supposed to go to his school for their collections.”

“OK.”

“James, is it my imagination or are you giving me a hard time about all this?”

“No, no,” he said. “Not at all. You should do whatever you want to. I was just ... surprised is all. I didn’t know you and Greg and had been talking about a change in plans.’

“I haven’t talked to Greg about it yet,” she said. “It hadn’t really occurred to me until I got here. I had forgotten how nice it could be in the off-season. How quiet everything is. It’s very ... calming.”

It was also impractical, especially for House these days, Wilson thought, though he didn’t say anything.

The house sat high to avoid storm surges. When Wilson had driven them both up to the house that first weekend after Anna’s stroke -- when it was clear that there was no hope -- he and House had both sat there in the car after he turned off the engine, staring at the stairs.

It was 14 steps up to the main level. Wilson counted them out silently as he supported House up each one.

House spent each night they were there sleeping on the couch in her father’s office, rather than face the additional steps up to the bedrooms on the second floor.

“Besides, the prices will only improve if I wait,” Stacy said, interrupting his thoughts. “The dot com crowd is looking for more stable investments. I was thinking that if they wanted to come down and rent the place for a few weeks in the summer, it’d sell itself -- and at a high price.”

“I guess.”

“And this way I could hang onto it at least for a weekend or two when the weather warms up. You remember how nice that can be.”

Wilson knew the weekend she was thinking of, more than two years ago. Anna had been in Europe and he, House and Stacy had spent a long July weekend there. He could remember the feel of salt drying on his skin as they sat on the porch after a day on the beach, the sound of Duke Ellington drifting through the air, sitting in the sun with a cold beer in his hand while a cool breeze blew off the water.

Then he thought again about the steps. Fourteen of them: seven from the foot of the driveway, then a landing, then another seven. He wondered if Stacy had lost herself in the memories of how things had been.

For a split second, he wondered if she was imagining a life for herself there that was separate from what she had now -- someplace without House. But he shook his head and ignored the thought. She was probably just hoping that House would continue to improve. She had been so supportive of him up until now. He told himself that Stacy probably had begun to expect he’d keep getting stronger and that the stairs wouldn’t be a long-term obstacle. He told himself that he should sit down with her at some point and lay out the facts on House’s reduced mobility again.

Stacy and House weren’t like him or either of his wives, he told himself. They would make it. They’d already made it through the toughest times already, after all.

Stacy’s voice interrupted his thoughts again. “Anyway, I thought I’d stay here for the weekend and start going through things, then meet with the attorneys and agents on Monday, rather than driving back and forth,” she was saying. “You’ll look out for Greg, won’t you?”

“Of course, but he doesn’t need a babysitter.”

“Not a babysitter. Maybe a keeper,” she said. “He keeps using the cane when he knows he’s already tired. He fell yesterday when I brought him home from PT, before I headed out here. I think he fell in the morning when he was in the bathroom too, but he wouldn’t admit it.”

“Greg has always pushed himself hard, we shouldn’t be surprised he’s doing it now,” Wilson said.

“I know, I know,” Stacy said. “But back then it was strained muscles and a few days of bitching. Now? Now ...you know. And he gets mad when I say something, but if I don’t say anything he tells me to stop staring and spit it out.” She sighed. “You know, it sounds terrible to say this, but in some ways it’s going to be easier being here, dealing with all this, then being home and relaxing with him.”

Wilson could feel that sense of doom struggling back into the back of his mind. This time it was harder to ignore.

“Does that make me a bad person?” Stacy asked.

“You’re not a bad person,” Wilson said. “Maybe you’re just tired.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Anyway, Greg’s got his regular therapy plus his blood tests on Monday. Do you think you can spare some time to give him a ride?”

“Of course,” he said. “Don’t worry about anything. And try to get some rest, OK?”

“Sure. Thanks James.”

-------------

Wilson heard a muffled response through the door after he knocked, but couldn’t quite make out the words. He knocked again and heard House’s voice again, slightly louder, and tried the knob. The door was unlocked and he pushed it open.

“Was that a ‘Come in?’” he asked and closed the door behind him.

“Oh, it’s you,” House called from the kitchen. “I was thinking it was the hooker coming back for more.”

Wilson stepped through into the doorway and into the kitchen. House was standing in front of the counter next to the stove, his body supported by the crutches under his shoulders, his hands busy chopping an onion while something sizzled in a stock pot on the stove.

“So how many hookers are you cooking for these days anyway?”

“Dozens.” House swiveled slightly onto his left leg to look at Wilson. “You’d be surprised how much action you can get with a little white sauce.”

“And here I’ve been wasting my time with chocolate and roses.”

“Those are strictly amateur level,” House said and turned back toward the counter. “To play on the pro level you’ve got to be know how to handle a decent reduction.”

“But for some reason, this doesn’t smell like a white wine kind of night.”

“That’s because you aren’t worth that much effort.”

Wilson leaned sideways onto the counter, watching House dice onions then transfer them into the pot. House put the cutting board back on the counter and switched over to cutting jalapeno peppers, making fast but even slices. “If that’s some of your five-alarm chili that you’re making, I’ll pass on the wine anyway.”

House paused in his chopping and looked over at him. “It’d be a shame not to make it, don’t you think? First night I’ve had the chance since ...” he shrugged. “I was going to make some a few weeks back, but Stacy kept bitching that I was going to end up hurting myself somehow, and I didn’t feel like arguing about it.”

House had called him less than an hour after Wilson had talked to Stacy. Wilson had been with a patient, but the message was brief, declaring a guys’ night out -- “or in, as the case may be” -- and ordering Wilson to pick up some movies.

“There’s beer in the ‘fridge,” House said, disrupting his thoughts. “Am I going to get a lecture if I ask you to grab me one while you’re at it?”

“Depends on whether you need one or if it’d do any good,” Wilson said and grabbed two Heinekens. He opened both, then hopped up to sit on the counter to the left of House’s cutting board.

“The answer to both would be a resounding no,” House said and took a drink.

“That’s what I figured,” Wilson said. He nodded at the crutches. “Bad day?”

House sighed and set down the knife. “What’s Stacy been saying now?”

“Nothing unusual.”

“Just her usual litany of mother-henning, I’m sure,” House said. “I’m fine. It’s just easier to use the crutches when I’m going to be standing for a while. This way I’ve got my hands free. That’s all.”

Wilson shrugged. “OK,” he said. He took another drink, then set the bottle on the counter, watching House’s hands as he picked up the knife again and resumed cutting the peppers, then followed them as he dumped them into the pot. “She just mentioned that you fell a couple of times yesterday.”

House tightened his grip on the wooden spoon in his right hand, then began stirring the mixture of meat, onions, garlic, peppers and spices. Wilson could pick up the whiff of cumin, chili powder and some other ingredients that House had never revealed. “It’s nothing,” he said and then tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot. “I fall down, I get up. It’s the new world order.”

Wilson looked down at the beer held between his own hands. “I know, and I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be a nag, but you know that as long as you’re on the Coumadin ...”

“Yeah, yeah, we need to monitor all cuts and bruises,” House said. He waved the knife at Wilson. “Want to take these away from me? Just in case?”

“As if you’d ever let me touch your precious French knives. I’m surprised you let Stacy handle them.”

House shrugged. “Stacy has ways of getting what she wants,” he said. “Sometimes it’s easier to just give in.” He took a long drink of the beer and closed his eyes.

Wilson looked over at him. “Give in? That doesn’t sound like you.”

House picked up his spoon again and went back to stirring the chili. “Some things you just can’t fight,” he said. “Or at least sooner or later you realize you can’t win.” He looked over at Wilson. “If you want to make yourself useful, I could use a couple of cans of tomatoes from the pantry.”

--------------

Wilson finished off a beer halfway through the first Jackie Chan movie as the chili simmered. House shook his head and paused the DVD when Wilson went to get another one. He held up his beer, showing the bottle was still half-full.

“I have officially become a lightweight,” he said, and took another sip. “One yuppie beer a night is about all I can handle.”

“I’m sure it won’t take you long to recover your form,” Wilson said as he walked back into the living room. He offered House a Coke instead.

“It’ll take years, if Stacy has anything to do with it.”

“She worries.” Wilson slouched back into the cushions and stretched his feet onto the coffee table. “That’s not totally unexpected from someone who cares about you.”

“She never did before.” House flicked the tab on the can .

“Of course she did,” Wilson said. “She just was better at hiding it.”

“So why can’t she do that now?”

Wilson took a drink and stared off at the bookshelves. “I don’t know,” he said. “She was scared as hell when you got sick. I guess maybe she still is.”

House glared at Wilson down the length of the couch. “Well boo hoo for her.” He stood and grabbed the cane from the end of the couch and walked back into the kitchen, Wilson following him. He paused at the door to change the cane for the crutches that had been leaning against the wall and made his way back over to the stove. “Maybe we should have a party to try and cheer her up.”

He picked up the spoon with his right hand, lifting the lid of the stock pot with his left, steam and the scent of spices rising into the air. He tried to move closer to the stove, but couldn’t handle the spoon, the lid and the crutches all at once, and the spoon and lid both slipped out of his hands when he grabbed for the crutches -- the lid clanging down on the metal surface of the stove, the spoon splattering red across the counter.

“Son of a bitch!”

He moved back from the stove. “Leave it,” he ordered when Wilson reached for the sponge. “I’ve got it.”

Wilson held up both hands. “OK, OK.”

He watched House clean up the mess, then toss the sponge back into the sink. House turned back to the stove and picked up the spoon again, but seemed to just stare into the pot. Wilson leaned back against the counter, waiting House out.

“I don’t get it,” House finally said.

“Get what?”

“Her,” House said. “I used to think I knew what she was thinking. Now?”

“Wow, a man not understanding how a woman thinks,” Wilson said. “Radical concept.”

“Stacy’s not like that,” House said. He still had his back to Wilson, but his shoulders weren’t as tense. “Or she wasn’t. She made sense -- at least most of the time.”

House began stirring the chili again, more slowly this time. “Now she’s always on edge. She’s always crying over everything.”

“Well, her Mom did just ...”

“Before that,” House said. “There have been days when she seemed to act like everything that happened was all about her. As if I was supposed to apologize for putting her through so much. As if any of this was my choice at all. Like somehow I’ve dumped all this extra responsibility on her.”

House set aside the spoon again and put the lid back on the pot. “It’s only gotten worse since her Mom died. She used to laugh about her mother’s taste in jewelry. Now she won’t even leave home without that damn crucifix, like it’s some kind of Eastern Orthodox mourning ritual. What’s up with that?”

Wilson shrugged. “I guess it makes her feel closer to her Mom. You’ve got to expect she’ll be on edge about a lot of things for a while, though. She’s probably going to be overprotective about everything she cares about -- including you. Maybe you should just accept it and let her pamper you for a while.”

House headed out of the kitchen again. He didn’t bother slowing down long enough to switch over to the cane, instead propelling himself back into the living room. The movie was still paused, Jackie blurred in the middle of a roundhouse kick. House picked up the Heineken again and took three long gulps.

“It’s not pampering, it’s nagging” he said when he’d emptied the bottle. “And I don’t want people taking care of me anyway. I never have. Hell, I got mad at my Mom if she tried to hold my hand to cross the street when I was three.”

“You might not want help, but you do need it,” Wilson said. “Don’t even try to deny it, you know it’s true whether you want to admit it or not.”

“I just need to figure out new ways to do things.”

“And I’m sure you will, but why do you have to make it so damn hard on people who care about you to help you out now?”

“Because it’s hard on me, OK?” House said. “I don’t see any reason why I should make it easy on you or Stacy or the guy holding open the door when he sees me coming just because you all seem to think you’re doing a good deed.”

House headed back into the kitchen carrying the empty bottle.

“Yeah, because doing something good for you is its own reward,” Wilson muttered and followed him.

House rinsed out the bottle and put it in the sink to drain next to Wilson’s empty.

“Why are you on my case all of a sudden anyway? Stacy put you up to playing twenty questions again?”

Wilson took another sip from his beer. “What, I need a reason to care now?”

“As if anyone could stop you from caring. It’s embedded in your DNA. But you usually do a better job of hiding it when you’re dealing with me. This line of questioning is almost amateurish. It’s beneath your usual level.”

“Well excuse me for not having the time to devise a master plan for checking up on you.”

House leaned against the counter. He poked the end of the crutch under his left shoulder at Wilson, nearly touching him with the rubber tip. “Or maybe, this is actually some elaborate ruse, and you’re actually worried about something else,” House considered. “What’s wrong, things going bad with Julie already?”

“What? No. No! God, House, why do you assume I have to have an ulterior motive every time I ask you a simple question?”

“Everyone does. It’s human nature. You go to the car dealership and you really want the red sports car, but you let the salesman think you’re only looking so he’ll give you a better deal to try and lure you in.”

“Right, because friends and used car salesmen operate on the same level.”

“Of course not,” House said. “Salesmen are more up front about what they want.”

Wilson shook his head and took another gulp of his beer.

“Or say you’re at the strip club, and Chesty McChesterson says she doesn’t do lap dances ...”

“I’m begging you to stop,” Wilson said.

“You sure? It was a great metaphor.”

“Positive.”

“Because I’ve got other examples.”

“Each one a sterling character reference I’m sure.”

“Great. So let’s get back to how you compare to the used car salesman.”

“Isn’t the chili ready yet?”

“I’ve got to do a taste test, then let it simmer a while longer once I adjust the spices,” House said. “So I’m going to guess that you’re worried about meeting her folks, right? Got the big ‘get acquainted’ dinner coming up on Sunday. You’re probably wondering how to break the news of the two divorces to them.”

“Yes, I’m nervous, but not about that. Julie says she already told them,” Wilson took another sip of his beer. “And, you’re trying to change the subject.”

“See? Human nature. First I insult you, then I pretend that I give a crap about your love life, and it’s all about disguising the fact that I don’t want to talk about me.”

“Fine,” Wilson said. “Consider the subject dropped. You are of no interest to me. But just one last thing: be careful.”

House rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll let you know if I get any weird bruises.” He took the lid off the stock pot again and stirred the mixture. “Now will you shut up?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Wilson said. “Well, yes, be careful that way, but just ... take it easy on Stacy for a while. Let her rag on her or whatever else she wants to say and let get it out of her system. Try not to fight everything she tells you for a while.”

House took a bowl out of the cupboard and spooned a bit of the chili into it. “Oh right. So I suddenly stop fighting her and she’ll be sure to stop worrying. No change in a character there. Great plan.” He scooped some of the chili onto a tablespoon and blew across it to cool it down.

“Good point,” Wilson said. “Plan B: let her have her way some of the time.”

House slurped up the chili and seemed to consider the taste. “You try it,” he said to Wilson and handed over the spoon.

Wilson took a sample of the chili and followed House’s lead, cooling it off before putting it into his mouth. “Tastes perfect to me,” he said.

“That’s what I thought,” House said. He opened a bottle of chili powder and poured more into the pot and stirred it in. “So what did Stacy say to you today that’s got you so worried?” House put the lid back on the pot and put the spoon down on the cutting board. He stared down at the wood surface of the board and the wooden spoon across it. “What is she telling you she won’t tell me?”

“Nothing,” Wilson said. “It’s nothing.”

House turned toward him.

“She didn’t say anything,” Wilson said. “She’s just ... she just seemed tired, that’s all.”

“We’re all tired.” House narrowed his eyes and Wilson could sense him studying his face for any hidden meaning.

“And maybe she’s a little more tired just now,” Wilson said. “I just thought you should give her some space for a few weeks and give her a break from worrying about you.”

“Fine,” House said. “No more worrying. Now will you shut up so we can watch the rest of the movie? It’s a very complicated plot, you know.”

House swapped out the crutches for the cane and walked back into the living room, settling back down on the couch.

“There’s a plot?” Wilson sat down at the other end of the couch again and put his feet up on the coffee table.

“Sure,” House said. “Very intricate. I think there are some bad guys who are mad at him. He’s a chef in this one, isn’t he?”

“I thought he was a TV star this time.”

“Maybe he’s both. Let’s find out.” House hit the play button again and Jackie finished his kick, the bad guy flipping back and to the ground.

August, September, October, November. Each installment of this is great to read, a pleasure and I can't wait to see what happens next and how it rounds out. It's a really great idea (as I've said before- it's one of those 'wish I'd thought of it' situations, for me at least) and each chapter is perfectly rounded out with the relationships, the way that things are gradually revealed, and the step-by-step way that we see the relatioship breakdown and House's recovery.
The beautiful thing is that, especially in the first couple of chapters, we see House and Stacy happy, and kind of forget that they could ever break up. Clever, and it makes for a great heartbreaker at the end.

Your writing effortlessly portrays the characters, and it's very easy to read. I love this fic!

I love this bit.
The dialogue is great, as before, and everything to do with House cooking is spot on. You do great House POV, too, but it's great how you're giving everyone else a go on the breakup.

All in all, well done, and I'm sorry I didn't reply sooner. This is going really well, can't wait to see more.

B)

The car salesman analogy is a gem and I love Wilson here- so interrsting seeing him with Stacy. For some reason, I do think she probably spooned House onto Wilson on some level (that is terrible expression - forgive me its early) even subconsciously and I think that is captured well.

Stacy's parents house as an 'escape' for her makes sense too - great image that it's out of reach, with the steps, from House too. There is also a real sense of her getting restless too and after this length of time the unravelling is a nice slow reveal - great stuff!

Cheers

Benj

We're moving on ... and Julie is on the outside, looking in.


DECEMBER

The elevator groaned again, and Julie wondered if she and James should have opted for the stairs.

“You don’t need to worry,” James said, and Julie smiled at the way he always seemed to read her thoughts. “It’s just old and cranky. It hasn’t broken down yet. Besides,” he said, winking at her, “I’m here to rescue you if anything happens.”

“My hero.” She placed her hands melodramatically over her heart and smiled at him.

“And even if it does, we’ll just have a private New Year’s party.” James leaned down to kiss her and she forgot about the ominous sounds coming from over their heads and the grinding gears she felt through the soles of her shoes.

She returned the kiss, her hand reaching beneath his open coat and blazer. She could feel the texture of his cotton shirt and the soft lambswool of the scarf she had given him a week earlier. They both laughed as the elevator came to an abrupt stop, James’ forehead bumping lightly against hers with the jolt.

“Darn it,” she said as the door opened. “I guess I’ll have to share you tonight after all.”

James took her hand and brushed a soft kiss across her knuckles. He smiled. “Not all night,” he said.

They had split the holiday season. James coming to her family’s Christmas dinner after finishing a shift at the hospital, then Julie making the trip with him to his family’s place for the last day of Hanukkah. Now it was New Year’s Eve with Greg and Stacy, then a long day of bowl games and overeating with her friends on New Year’s Day.

“You sure about this?” James paused before the door at the end of the hallway. “Your Mom said you usually ...”

“Stop worrying about what my mother thinks I should be doing,” she said. “If it was up to her, I’d still be married, have 2.5 children and be meeting her for lunch at the club every Tuesday and Friday.”

“She always makes it sound like I’m corrupting you.”

“Maybe I like being corrupted,” Julie said, and put her hands up around his neck, pulling him down to kiss her.

Her mother also kept telling her that James was overly devoted to his patients, that he wouldn’t have time for her. Julie could see only virtue in his devotion to helping others. While her mother fretted that Julie could never settle for coming second to medicine in his life, she found his commitment admirable. Even today he had put in a few hours at the hospital, checking in on the handful of people who were continuing their treatments through the holidays and overseeing the treatment of a 12-year-old immunocompromised patient who had picked up an infection during a Christmas visit at home.

He had called her at a little past 6 p.m., telling her he was going to squeeze in a quick run before he picked her up. Julie could feel where his hair was still damp from his shower, and she could smell of his cologne mixed with the scent of his soap and shampoo.

“I cannot believe you left the house on a cold night like this with wet hair and no hat,” she told him. “You’d think a doctor would know better.”

“Maybe I should find someone who would look out for me,” he said. “Someone who would stop me from doing such silly things.”

“Maybe you should,” Julie whispered.

“Got any suggestions on who I should ask?” His voice was a quiet rumble next to her ear. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her earlobe and neck.

“Greg, get away from the door and give them a little privacy,” Julie could hear Stacy’s muffled voice coming through the wood.

“Why? This is more entertaining than Dick Clark.” She heard a shuffle of footsteps and the thumping sound she guessed was Greg’s cane from the far side of the door.

James shook his head. “Sorry,” he whispered, but he had a smile on his face.

The door swung open. Stacy was holding it open as Greg moved slowly across the living room, his back to the entrance.

“Happy New Year,” Stacy said.

“It’s not midnight yet,” Greg called across the room as he reached the couch and slowly lowered himself onto it.

“Technically no,” James said. He handed Stacy a bottle of Perrier-Jouet Julie had suggested he pick up for the evening. “But it is almost the new millennium. Finally. So you can stop bitching at everyone who spent 2000 saying it was the 21st century.”

James took Julie’s coat and hung it in the closet, then hung up his own. He was wearing the old soft corduroy blazer that she had dug out of the back of his closet one day -- the one she had told him she loved. He took her hand again and gave it a squeeze as he walked wi