A set of drabbles, based in and around House and Stacy's relationship.
Written to a set of words from the
random word generator, which is very cool; and if I remembered who it was that I learned about it from, I would praise them. The title is from the song by Stars, and like in the song, the death is merely a metaphorical one.
Thank you for reading. Any comment, concrit, review, okra recipe, or otherwise; would be gladly appreciated.
Cheers.
YOUR EX-LOVER IS DEAD.
Separating.
The silence in the car is uncomfortable. Stacy snaps the radio on too loud.
One last box of CDs and ephemera sits on the passenger seat next to her; The bitter end.
She pulls off to a rest area next to a McDonalds and sits there, frozen. The chain of her crucifix runs through her fingers.
House lies in the empty cool of the apartment, flat on his back on the floor beside the stereo, staring at the white expanse of the ceiling. He puts his hands against his face, and they’re cold.
It’s never enough. It’s always too much.
Collects.
It’s a little bit scary, in a slightly annoying way. There is a woman in
his living room, placing
her records next to
his Miles Davis.
This is what he loves about her. She finds his habits endearing. She understands that this is all very new to him.
In the second week he knows Stacy she goes through the fridge and throws out everything in it (the jar of olives and the withered pepper). Then she calls for Chinese in between pushing him up against the kitchen bench and unbuttoning his shirt.
God, he thinks. This is going to work.
Toward.
James is over. He’s flicking through the channels looking for the football roundup, his back to the kitchen, while Greg prepares
something.
He’s scraping dip ingredients into a microwave bowl with surgical precision when she steps close to him. He doesn’t hesitate, but turns into her arms, a funny little smile on his face.
He smells faintly of chlorine, as well as soap, clothes detergent. James turns around to say something, but he grins and turns back to the TV. She whispers
I love you, and in between the TV and the jazz concert on the radio, Greg echoes her.
Doors.
As one door closes, another opens.
One of the dime-store maxims his father collected like pocket lint. Whether they were the product of a dirt-poor unstructured childhood (to the best of his knowledge) or years indentured to the military mindset; he doesn’t know.
House realises that love isn’t a default position for someone like him. Sometimes there isn’t much. But when House does love, it’s so strong.
So when Wilson looks across at him and says
Well, you and Stacy are pretty tight, mmm?, he just smiles and looks away. There’s nothing to say, so he doesn’t say it.
Departmental.
By the time he emerges, she is dozing in front of the muted TV, the movie discarded.
“Oh,” he says, “I forgot about the food.” She looks up as he wipes his fingers on the serviette strategically placed by the boxes.
“What, did I say I’d be out in a minute?”
“You nodded.”
He pauses for a second, shrugs. Moves fluidly around the coffee table to the couch, lanky.
“I was busy.”
“For an hour and a half at dinner time?”
But she isn’t really annoyed.
He isn’t being malicious. His eyes glint over the Singapore noodles.
He’s happy now.
Confines.
Stacy glances appraisingly at the spotless original-vinyl dashboard before rolling down the window. Heat rolls in, the smell of hot bitumen. It’s a comforting summer smell.
“They’ve taken good care of it.”
“Yeah, great paint job, crappy carburettor.”
His voice resonates wearily from under the bonnet.
She gives it five minutes, maybe ten, before he will stamp off towards the pay-phone at the last truck-stop they passed.
Their relationship is a balance, a constant shifting equilibrium. House is dangerous. But she loves this, she loves him.
When you live with House, you live without pretence.
You don’t step back.
Folder.
By the time they admit him he can hardly think to fill out the paperwork. She has to prompt him for stupid details like his health insurance number.
Her hands shake as she fills in the date of his birth. Telephone numbers, names.
Then it’s the look on his face that confirms her deep, gnawing disquiet.
Twenty-four hours ago he was on the eighth hole. Eight hours ago he looked at her across the bathroom, slumped on the edge of the bath, trying desperately to brush it off.
Something is wrong.
This isn’t good.
He always has to be right.
Administers.
They’re very reserved at first, in that distant caring doctor way.
Stacy is apologetic, Wilson and Cuddy look devastated. He’s too stoned out of his mind to register anything at first; the pain, the morphine, the slight hysteria.
He realises that they’re trying to introduce the whole mind-blowing concept to him gently, to soften the blow.
He knows. He couldn’t possibly not know. He’s a doctor. He’s a smart guy. Two months ago he was running the half-marathon on a Sunday morning, crunching across the fallen leaves.
So this is it. The betrayal. The beginning of the end.
Cousin.
They’re in the car, inching along in traffic. He is silent, as is she.
Stacy tries not to worry, tries not to look worried.
He’s probably trying not to throw up.
He’s staring out the window, upper body slouched, legs stiff. He turns to her.
“Would you marry your cousin?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, you’re from the South…”
She raises her eyebrows.
“No!”
“-Would you marry
me?”
Now he’s staring at her, his eyes hollow and tired. God, he’s lost weight, she thinks.
The steering wheel is wet under her palms.
“Greg, I – I,”
“Just checking.” He adds, too late.
Differential.
He may have been dozing, sleeping very well. The telephone rings. He jerks slightly, his face pressed to the sheet.
It’s just like ten years ago, on call at 3AM, Stacy just beginning to stir next to him. He doesn’t move. The telephone rings again, he reaches for it, and everything falls back into place.
Work, on the line. Stroke. Stable. Boring. He hangs up the phone.
He knows it won’t ever be any different. He knows that this is really only a matter of time.
It costs so much to be an asshole. But he’s lucky, all over again.
.- .