Little wippie written on a late Saturday night. Could turn into a bigger fic- I'm thinking a series of little fics. We'll see what happens. Unbeta'd for now... because I just felt like posting. Bring on the concrit :)


Title: Lead Me Upstairs
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She's taken the first step. He'll take the 2nd.


She feels him staring at the back of her head as she walks up the steps towards her door. Stacy had accepted the date on a whim and out of curiosity, but it hasn’t been a good date. The restaurant was slow; the food was cold, and he was a jerk. But she’d been able to bite back at him every step of the way, throwing insults back as soon as she received them. He talked about idiots. She talked about imbeciles. She drank a cabernet; he drank four beers. They both had steak. He balked at the waiter while she hid her face in her hand. He left five dollars in tip for an eighty dollar tab And she drove them back to her place because he’d had too much to drink.

When she reaches the door she turns and faces him, a glimmer of a false grin on her lips. It’s the same grin that she wears when greeting a competing attorney and an anxious client. The grin that says ‘thanks for playing’ but ‘I win anyway.’

“So…”

“You going to invite me in?” He asks, cocksure and serious. A car, its headlights beaming, speeds past on the road in front of her condo, screeching to a stop as the light turns red.

Stacy laughs, turns back to the door. “I don’t think…”

“Come on,” he urges. “I’m too drunk to drive…”

“I’ll call you a cab.”

“You know you….”

“They were right about you.”

He remains serious, steps up to join her on the top stair and leans into her face. “What do they say about me?”

“That you’re a jerk.”

“I am a jerk,” he repeats it, smug and confident.

“I don’t know what I was thinking…”

“You like jerks. Or else you wouldn’t be here.” He leans in closer and she finds it hard to avoid his gaze so she puts her hands on her hips and looks at the pale orange street lights illuminating the road. The air is summer thick and heavy, laden with insects and ozone. He’s leaning in so close that she can see beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “You probably dated the high school drop out when you were a freshman. Or maybe it was the frat boy who got kicked off campus.”

She sighs and catches his glance for a moment before turning away again and crossing her arms. “I’m not…”

“Come on. Everyone you know knew about this date and most of them know about me. Hell, Cuddy probably told you the size…”

She gasps, feigned surprise, and slaps his arm. “She did not…” Then she pauses and her eyes narrow. “Wait, how would she…”

He grins through thin lips and leans down again. “But you do want to find out….”

She’s considering her options now. And the options are good. She can invite him up the stairs, have a one-night stand, leave it alone after that – because he knows that he isn’t her type. She can handle it and she knows (from what they say) that he’d have no problem with it. What does she have to lose?

Her head cocks to the side and she bites her lip while she lifts her hand and fingers his blazer. He is handsome. And she’s pretty sure he would be good in bed. He’s a doctor. And he’s the hospital’s bad boy.

“If I invite you up…”

“When.”

“If I invite you up…. “

“Do you have scotch?”

“Vodka.”

“Tonic?”

“Cranberry.”

“At least tell me you have a little Sly…”

“Marvin Gaye work?”

His head tilts back and he sighs and rubs a hand across his forehead. And before she can react or back away, his lips are sealed onto hers and she finds herself kissing him back. He tastes like steak and beer, but his lips are firm and persistent. She is responding in all the right ways. He wraps his arms about her waist and she latches her hands behind his neck. They get closer so that the fabrics of their clothing are touching. He pushes a leg in between hers and then she knows: She wants him. Just tonight, she thinks.

When he pauses for a breath, she looks at him through slited eyes: “Let’s go upstairs.”

Yeah -- the present tense works well for this.

I like how House behaves like an arrogant jerk, yet is somehow endearing -- very in-character! Stacy comes across as someone who knows what she wants.

gracias...
I think this is going to expand... quite a bit. I liked writing it and it felt... right.

either way works for me. I personally like the ficlet as a stand alone. But, I could see how it could go on aswell.

Yes could work as a stand alone, but it could also work as a longer piece. With the information we have (they didn't hit it off yet she moved in within a week, and they're together five years later; she remains partially convinced he is "the one" and he's at least interested enough to try it again, etc.) it's a period and relationship rich for plumbing.

This could be really fascinating.

Brilliant. Like the others said, it works very well as a vignette/ficlet, but there's a lot of room for a sequel here. You have House and Stacy down pat, I think -- the relationship they had, very much equals. I like the summary, too. :D

Nitpick: tense change here.

I like this paragraph. The lights, the summer air... very descriptive, so very House.
What I love about this is the fact that you've almost defined the moment Stacy fell for House. It's very interesting, because we know that up to a certain point she was never going to see him again...


Well done!


Cheers,
AE.

Very nice, I like how realistic this was. House and Stacey seem so in character, I hope you'll continue with it. You seem to have a very good idea of how to write the two of them. I liked it.

yeah... i noticed that the following day. Must fix... it is nasty.

I think I've decided that this is very much a prelude. But the way I'm going this week (in RL)... not gonna happen for a while.

I lied... since I worked OT until 5:30am yesterday morning, now I'm taking the whole of Thursday off. Now... if I can just go to bed before 3am....

Once again... bring the concrit. I may be interested in bringing on a beta for this sucker (btw...). I've got a ton of ideas now. I'm only posting this here for now on the chance that it'll be edited.

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By the time he reaches the third step in the narrow stairway, his shoulders are burning and his legs are trembling. What the hell does she have in this box? And will his apartment floor be able to take the weight of whatever it is? He lifts his knee onto the next step and turns so that his back is against the railing. He rests the box on his knee for a moment and looks up at the remainder of the stairs: three down, ten to go.

They’d been at this for all of thirty minutes, including the drive over from Stacy’s old place. For all but the two minutes when he’d been latched onto her lips, House had wondered if this wasn’t some grandiose mistake that would be over in a month. Less than a week ago, he’d stood at her door wondering if she was going to let him into the apartment. Three days later, they hadn’t spent a single night apart and he’d found himself (more than once) having to explain to his boss that he’d needed a legal opinion and that was why he was in Stacy’s office instead of with his patients. Either his boss was a nitwit or he didn’t care: House was sure that he had lipstick smudged on his own mouth more than once. On the fifth morning, Stacy had gone back to her apartment to pick up a few things before going to work. House began to wonder where she was when he went to get her for lunch. She showed up in his office near 2pm, looking uncharacteristically disheveled and pissy. He’d shut the office door and the blinds on the window, but she’d been unresponsive to his mouth and stiff in his arms.

“What’s wrong?” he’d asked.

She backed away, arms crossed and shook her head. “Nothing.”

“You get what you need from home?”

She’d nodded and moved past him to stand at the window.

House had been suspicious of her movements. They spoke of uneasiness, secrets, break-ups. Of all the women that he’d seen in the past few years, Stacy had felt the most right. After only a few days, he felt closer to her than to any of the others. She matched his wit, she was attractive, and the sex had been great. He wasn’t ready to give this up.

“We’ve only been sleeping together for a few days, so I know you can’t already be pregnant. And even if you were, you wouldn’t show for a few months. So we’ve got time to conjure an alien abduction.”

She looked over her shoulder at him, a sighing laugh.

House moved to stand over his desk, looking down at the mess of paperwork on top. He picked up a paperclip and began twisting it out of shape, wrapping it around his index finger.

“You were okay this morning, you were late coming back here,” he started. “So either you ran into someone or…”

“I didn’t have anyone pick up my mail. My newspapers were piled up.”

House had briefly wondered if he hadn’t made a horrible judge of personality. Maybe she was mentally ill, obsessive compulsive. He really hadn’t done any in depth research on her. He’d just assumed that the lack of gossip about her around the hospital and her lawyer credentials were enough to avoid worry. The paperclip was cutting off circulation to his fingertip and it was beginning to bulge and redden.

“It was stupid really. Lights off, newspapers at the front door.” Her hand lifted up for a moment, then fell back to it’s crossed position.

Bells began going off in his head. He dropped the misshapen paperclip onto his desk and approached her at the window. “Break in?”

“You could say that.”

House brought his arms around her waist, pulling her back against him.

“They take anything?’

“Everything.” Her head fell back against his chest with the admission. “They must’ve had a moving truck…”

“What did the police say?”

She’d huffed and turned to face him, sitting on the desk against the window. “They shrugged their shoulders and looked at me like I was an idiot.”

He had stepped closer to her, sighing, and uncharacteristically sympathetic.

“You’re not an idiot.”

“I know, I just…” She sighed again, running her fingers against the buttons on his shirt. “I should’ve known…”

This was trouble, he knew. Sex had a tendency to make people stupid and he wasn’t an exception to genetics. Stacy could blame herself all she wanted for leaving the apartment obviously vacant for a few days. And that blame could’ve fallen on him for his insistence that she stick around at his place every night. But in the end, a third party had decided to break a law. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t his fault. But he had found himself feeling so guilty, that the words came out of their volition:

“Come live with me.”

He had cursed himself the moment he said it and her eyes had widened, disbelieving.

“Greg, I’ve only known you for a week…”

“Just for a while- until you can replace everything. You’ve been living with me for the past few days anyway.”

She laughed and stood up, separating herself and bringing her arms to cross against her midsection again. “Spending a few nights together is not living together.”

“Why not?”

“Laundry,” she responded. “Dishes, bathrooms, nasty habits, rent.”

“Rent will be cheaper, we know each others’ nasty habits, and I promise to put the toilet seat down. You’re doing the dishes though.”

“How about the laundry?”

He smirked and pulled her to him again. “We’ll buy new clothes every week.”

The memory of the conversation from two days ago makes House smirk now, but the weight of the box is pinching on his knee. He takes a breath and gathers his reserve for the remaining stairs.

When he gets to the top, his face is red and sweat is dripping down into his shirt collar. He feels like he couldn’t possibly take another step so he goes to put the box on the nearest surface that doesn't involve bending over or lifting, the kitchen table. The sounds of rattling glass at first alarm him as he sets the box down heavy on the table, but he is more alarmed by the fact that the box must contain kitchenware and he doesn’t have anymore space for it. His cabinets are full.

“Greg, did you see my photo albums in that last box?”

Stacy turns the corner into the kitchen and heads towards the box that House has just labored into the apartment. His breath hitches and he breathes heavily before plopping into a chair at the table. He shakes his head. She places a hand on his shoulder for a moment before beginning to open the newly arrived box. It takes her a moment to realize what’s in it.

“You brought this up yourself?” She’s exasperated. “You should’ve asked for help!”

“At least I don’t have to go to the gym today.”

“It’s my mother's old dishes. They're very sturdy.”

“Uh huh,” he mutters.

“Surprised that the burglars didn’t get it.”

She goes to the sink and returns with a glass of iced water, which she hands to him. His arms are still trembling from exertion, but the water slides down his hot throat, immediately cooling his skin from the inside out. Stacy moves off to rummage around in his cabinets, presumably looking for space. He watches her, gulping from the glass to replenish the fluids that he’s lost going up the stairs.

“I’m not really sure I have the space for fine china…”

Stacy puts her hands on her hips and looks around. “I can put it in storage with the furniture. No big deal.”

He smirks. This is why he likes her so much. Too bad that moving the box of dishes will involve maneuvering it down the stairs again. Not to mention that the rest of the furniture is actually in the back of the moving truck. It, too, will have to be moved at some point. He hopes that it doesn’t involve stairs.

House suddenly realizes that someone's shoes are beating down his wooden staircase. “Hey, House,” a voice calls from the stairway and House is suddenly self-conscious and on edge. He hasn’t told anyone about Stacy moving in this weekend. “Oh, hi… Stacy.”

Wilson stands at the top of the stairs and looks around at the half empty boxes littering the apartment floor and the full box on top of the table, a perplexed twist on his features. Both Stacy and House stay quiet for a moment, unsure of what to say. Apparently, Stacy didn’t tell anyone what she was doing either.

“I just… we have a tee time of 8:30… tomorrow,” Wilson says, still looking around.

“Good.” He takes a sip of water.

“Are you going to be here or should I pick you up somewhere else?”

House and Stacy look at each other for a moment before he turns back to his friend. “I’m not moving. Stacy had a break-in. She needs a place to stay for a little while.”

Wilson winces and moves into the living room. House is sure that he’s taking in the fact that there are more than just clothes and toiletries here. There are blankets, a new chair, books. There are too many things here to be just a place to stay.

“Uh huh,” Wilson responds. “I can see that.” He turns and comes back to the kitchen.

“You think we’re rushing,” Stacy says. It’s House’s turn to wince now and he stands, moving into the more comfortable chairs in the living room with his glass of water. He flips on the television and begins sifting through Saturday afternoon television.

“No.” Wilson crosses his arms and one lifts to rub the back of his neck as he glances at House when he moves past. “I just… I didn’t know that you were that serious… together… I mean… It just… “ He stumbles for a moment and then sighs. “You’ve been dating a week.”

“It’s temporary, Wilson,” House yells back to the kitchen.

There’s an awkward pause during which Stacy gives Wlson a confirmation nod. Wilson sighs, puts his hands on the back of the chair that House has vacated. “So, I guess it would be rude of me if I didn’t ask if you needed help.”

House smiles from the living room and swallows another cooling mouthful of water. That box isn’t making it back down the stairs on its own.

He pushes through the metal bar on the door, heading towards the wooden stairway of the hospital's north wing. He takes two at a time, long legs bouncing, heart rate increasing in each step, anger dissipating. When he reaches the first landing, he hears her coming through the doors below him and turns, head cocked. He sighs deeply and continues even more quickly to the second landing. He’s got three more floors to go before he reaches the safety of his office. Hopefully, he can find some reason there to delay the conversation. This is something he doesn’t have any desire to talk about. It doesn’t matter that she’s the closest confidant he’s ever had.

“Greg, would you please stop?”

He finds it strange that he obeys. He never obeyed his mother -not unless his dad was around and then, only until he was old enough to run.

Stacy is breathing hard by the time she reaches him. He’s standing on the step above her, but slouching against the railing, his head turned towards his feet. Finally, she catches her breath and begins speaking.

“So what’s the big deal about this? Other than you’re a snooping jerk…”

“I’m not really into birthday surprises…”

“I just thought it would be a nice.”

“It’s nice to go to dinner, play some golf, have wild sex. You could’ve invited Glenda from the ER.”

His eyes are a little wide and sarcastic now. In the year that she’s known him, she’s figured out that deflection is his version of reluctance. This is something he doesn’t want to explain.

“We can do those things on your actual birthday. Except for Glenda- I checked, but she’s busy.” The sarcasm draws the hint of a smirk on his lips, but it soon returns to stoic silence, so she continues. “This weekend, I thought it might be nice if your parents came down and we had dinner.” House is still looking at his feet. “I’ve only talked to them on the phone and you obviously haven’t seen them since we’ve been together.”

His mouth twists and he looks up at her, anger bursting into his eyes as his brows fold together. “There’s a reason for that.”

“I got them a hotel room. They won’t even be staying with us.”

“Well, thank god for that. Can we get them dinner reservations too?”

Stacy leans into him and he recoils, avoiding her questioning glance. Stacy has found that very few things really get to Greg House when it comes to his personal life. He often jokes that with the exception of her, he has no personal life, and therefore no one can gossip or offend him. She’s witnessed phone conversations with his mom. She’s spoken to his father once when Greg wasn’t around to answer the phone. James Wilson is his best friend and everyone else they associate with are her friends. She’s invited all of these people to dinner on Saturday night. Not one of them seems to be a reason for Greg’s reluctance.

“Why don’t you want to see them?”

“I want to see them. Just... not on Saturday.”

She knows it’s a lie, so she leans further into him, pushing his back into the railing even more. The door suddenly opens above them and two nurses begin down the stairs, catching glances at House and Stacy as she pulls off of him and stands with her arms crossed. She waits until the nurses have exited the stairwell to continue.

“You haven’t seen them in a year. They’re nice people.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Your mother sent us tickets to the Flyers game and cookies when it was my birthday.”

“My mom’s great.”

“She is.”

He pauses and pinches the space at the top of his nose. “Can we not do this now?”

“Greg…” There is a warning tone in her voice.

“Seriously. I’ve got patients.”

“Who can wait. I checked.”

“That’s illegal.”

“Never stopped you. So why don’t you want to see your dad?”

His chin lifts to the ceiling and he sighs.

“We don’t really… get along.”

There is something in his demeanor that tells her that this is something more in depth than Greg’s rumpled shirts and his dad’s Marine Corps morality. She is suddenly thinking of his propensity to diagnose half the kids in the clinic with abusive parents. She’s heard of no less than five cases that ended up being dragged into court. She pushes the thought to the side and probes further. Her eyes squint and she puts her hands on his chest. “Since when?”

“Since I was four and he dumped me into an ice bath for pissing the bed.”

Stacy looks up at him in surprise, but with none of the pity that he expects. “Are you serious?”

“No, I’m making it up.” He rubs his face again then speaks. “It was the 60’s.” He shrugs and purses his lips.

“Doesn’t make it right.”

“Whatever. Can you call it off now?”

She grabs at his lapels, stopping him from moving up the stairs again. “Greg, they’re already on their way.”

“Tell them I have the flu. I'm puking all over the place.”

“It’s one night, Greg. One dinner.”

“Right.”

He turns again, moving up the stairs unhindered. As Stacy watches him, his gait is carrying an extra twenty pounds of emotional baggage.

She feels a little guilty when she calls Blythe House later that night letting her know what time to meet them at McKinley's.

Part 4
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There are slow and heavy steps coming up the stairway a few minutes before seven. The evening, steel gray and damp, has opened up to a steady misting an hour prior. She’s been in the kitchen since she got home, pulling together a casserole and cutting vegetables for a salad. The table’s been set for the two of them, and she slides over in her socks and puts the two beers next to their frosted glasses. It’s quick and casual for a Wednesday night.

The door swings open and he steps into the kitchen with a splat. The bottoms of his slacks are soaked through and his coat is dripping. He makes to wipe his feet on the doormat, but it’s not helping much and he’s making puddles wherever he walks.

“God, honey, you’re soaked…” she murmurs, moving towards him. She glances out the window and sees that the mist has turned to a downpour. She helps him shrug out of his coat and reminds herself to throw it in the dryer later. He still hasn’t said anything, but he moves towards the back of the apartment, heading for the bathroom.

She continues throwing the salad together and pulls the casserole out of the oven while she listens to him in the back. There’s the sound of wet jeans hitting the floor, of running water, a toilet flushing. When he comes back to the kitchen, his hair is still plastered to his head, but his clothes are dry and he’s no longer dripping. He settles heavily into his chair and takes a swig of the beer from the bottle.

“How was your day?” she asks tentatively.

“Long,” he mutters. His voice, she notes, is scratchy, congested. He went in before she was up this morning and she knew he'd been running crazy all day. She'd passed him once in the hallway, but hadn't been able to speak to him. Now he's late coming home and looks exhausted.

She says nothing more until she’s finished preparing and sits down herself.

“How's the patient?” There’s only one that she could be talking about. The rest are doing well.

“Dead.”

“What? When?”

“About five.”

“What happened?”

He shrugs. “Family won’t allow an autopsy.”

“You okay?”

He looks up at her and digs into the casserole, scooping it onto his plate in one angry slopping motion.

“Okay,” she repeats. “Dumb question.”

He shakes his head. “No, I just…” His head shakes again before silence claims the room. “So how was your day?” A change of subject is better. But it doesn’t alleviate the weight in the room.

“Good. Normal.”

They finish dinner in silence and she wonders if he’ll want to talk about it later. She can never tell what he will or won’t talk about. It comes out in spurts- these little bits of his life that she’s sure no one else knows about. The one thing that she is sure of is that if she pushes it, he’ll just be angry about it and it’ll upset him more than if he remains quiet and lets it go away on its own.

After dinner, she lets him wrap himself around her on the couch while they passively watch television. She asks him, after the third time he sneezes on her, if he’s sick and if she should go get some Thera-Flu before they go to bed. But he just holds her tighter and pulls the blanket around them.


It’s after midnight when she wakes and hears him wheezing behind her on the couch. The television is still on- Letterman is spouting off about Clinton. . She sits up, the blanket falling to the floor. The wood floor hurts her knees, but she leans down anyway, running a hand across his forehead. She flinches when the heat comes into contact with the skin of her palm and winces as a particularly bright scene from the television shows her just how flushed he is. He mumbles something and she puts a hand on his clammy forearm.

“Honey…”

“Hmm?” His eyes stay closed.

“You’re sick.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re burning up. I’m going to the drugstore.”

“Tomorrow.” He pulls on her shoulder, but she resists and stands.

“Now.”

“Don’t go.” He's already missing her warmth next to him and he wants her back on the couch so he can finish his sleep. So she throws a blanket over top of him and kisses his forehead, making a promise:

“I’ll be back.”

She stands, finds her jacket, purse, and shoes in the dark, and drives the five minutes to Walgreen’s. The fluorescent lights in the store make her eyes hurt as she makes her way down the aisle containing the cold medicines. The store is nearly empty, but there is already someone looking at the row where she wants to be and she stands to the side and waits until he is done. After a few moments, he begins to move on, but when she looks up, she realizes that she knows him.

“James?”

He looks up from the box he carries in his hand. “Stacy, oh- hi.”

“What are you doing here?”

He pauses, shakes the box in front of him. “Ah… it’s Bonnie. She’s.. got something. You?”

“Greg.”

He nods, understanding. “Yeah, wasn’t looking so hot today. I thought it was…” He fades off, looking down again. It was something he didn’t mean to mention. Stacy is still looking at him, knowing what he’s hiding.

“The patient?”

He grimaces, rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “He doesn’t take these things lightly.”

“I know…”

“No, you don’t,” he says firmly. Now he’s looking directly at her. “You can’t possibly know how serious he takes these things.”

She’s confused for a moment and bites her lip. “Tell me.”

He sighs, looks at her and around the empty store. Elevator music, empty and drab accompanies the sound of the sliding door as yet another late night customer walks in. “Have time for a coffee?”

An hour later, she trudges up the staircase to the apartment, clothes damp from the misty night. She’s satisfied with what James has told her. So he sulks. So he carries around regrets and failures for years. She knows this already. However, she didn’t know that one big failure resulted in him digging up the past whenever a similar case came around. “Ghosts,” Wilson called them. House couldn’t let them go. It was probably the reason he got sick tonight. It was the part of the reason he’d been fired from three hospitals.

The apartment is still dark. He is still sleeping fitfully on the couch. She boils some water, takes it off before the whistle starts, and pours it over the Thera-Flu. Cup in hand, she leans over him, placing a gentle kiss on his lips.

“Honey… “

He stirs, brings a hand to his forehead.

“Hmph…” he sighs.

“Honey, you need to drink this.”

He rolls to his back, but his eyes remain closed. “Hmm.. Think I’m sick.”

Stacy grins at his late realization. “I know you’re sick. Drink this.”

He opens his eyes, and his hands reach towards the cup. He sips it, wincing at the heat as she watches. She takes it when he’s done, putting a hand to his head again.

“We should go to bed.”

He nods, but it takes a moment to get him to his feet. They stumble together to the bedroom, strip down to nothing, and climb under the sheets. She rolls to him, pressing against his back and her fingers caress his chest. In the morning, they both call in sick.

damn.... i knew I forgot something. i think all you guys probably check the other sites i update on (fanfic.net, and a few lJ's...) but for posterity...

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Part 5
There are feet running up and down the stairs all night long. Bare feet, boot-clad feet, sandaled feet, children, adults, dogs. Their room, unfortunately, is right next to the stairway and there is no elevator. It’s a main thoroughfare that has been quiet in the past few nights. Perhaps it's the weekenders, House thinks, the all-night partiers out for a romp on the town and running up and down random staircases in similarly random hotels.
He spends much of the night staring at the ceiling, imagining what kind of hell travel will be tomorrow. They’ll board a five hour train to Bangalore in the morning. He'll be exhausted, Stacy will be irritable, and the car will be noisy and overcrowded. From there, a flight up to Dehli, where they’ll find another pension and get a night's rest before he works for another two weeks and she sifts through markets and squares and finds the best curry. At the end of it, they'll have two weeks of vacation before returning to the States. Working with the local doctors and hospitals is a challenge and it's never boring. He has to work to understand the patients and he's even managed to pick up some of the language from the doctors who speak English. It's nothing like Princeton, with it's high-priced college kids and whiny suburban dads with back strain. The people he's working with here are primarily poverty-stricken and Harijan with no way out of their untouchable status. Their complaints and their conditions are more tangible and serious than almost everything in New Jersey.

Stacy shifts next to him, throwing an arm over his torso. He sighs, thanks their sponsors for throwing down extra money for air conditioning. But it’s still warm in the room and he’s bare-chested with the sheets at their feet. House touches Stacy's arm, running up and down. Her skin is warm, smooth.

He's thankful she took the time off to come with him. It isn’t often that he gets to do this work. The conditions can be shoddy and his ass occasionally turns into a faucet, but he gets to travel, to learn something he didn’t otherwise know, and to be incredibly not bored. He wasn’t sure, at first, whether or not Stacy would fit into this trip. They’d never traveled together before and conditions, at times, weren’t ideal. However, she’d adapted well and the only major fight they’d had the whole month was over whether to spend an extra week in India or fly to Thailand and lie on the beach for a week. They’d ended up flipping a coin over the issue and neither could complain when Thailand won the toss. The one thing he couldn’t take his mind off, however, was how much he actually liked her being there. He couldn’t think of any other person he’d rather be with. And for once in his life, he didn’t want to be alone.

“Greg,” she mutters, absently touching his navel. “You’re still awake?”

“You aren’t?” He reaches over her to tap the light on the travel alarm: 2:04.

“Have you slept at all? We still have some Valium…”

“Save it for tomorrow.”

There is silence punctuated by the sound of running water in an adjacent room and more footsteps on the stairs.

“I like being here.”

He rolls over, looking at her as she stares upwards at the ceiling. Her eyes shift to him for a moment and he can see her smile in the dim light. “You like peeing in squat toilets and smelling the bouquet of river sewage in what they call drinking water?”

She laughs a bit and smiles. “I’ve never traveled like this before.”

“You’ve never been outside of the U.S. before.”

“True. Have you?”

They’ve never talked about it. The subject never came up before three months ago when he suddenly revealed that he’d been invited to participate in an exchange program in India. And then their conversations were about vaccinations, visas, plane tickets, hotels, and packing lists.

“Yeah. Long time ago.”

“Where?”

“My dad was Marine, so…”

“Doesn’t count.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t count? We lived in Europe, Japan, Egypt…”

“On American bases.”

“He worked at the embassy in Egypt. We lived in Cairo.” He’s being smart now.

“Yeah, but have you traveled?”

He sighs and rolls over onto his stomach, lifting himself onto his elbows. “I was 20. Dropped out of school for a year.”

“Where did you go?”

“South America.”

“How was it?”

“During or after?”

She frowns. “During. Traveling..”

“That was good. Very good. Hot Brazilian babes everywhere, monkeys, jungles, guerrillas, amazing parasites…” Ha.

She slaps his shoulder playfully and rolls onto her side to face him.

“What about afterwards?”

“My dad cut off my college money and didn’t talk to me for two years. Said I was turning into a commie.”

“What did you do?”

“Got a scholarship and a job.”

“Did you travel again?”

He sighs and drops down to the lumpy pillow and his voice becomes muffled. He doesn't want to talk about travel now. Not while he's actually traveling and not while he’s lying here with their skins touching. “Not for a while. Europe was nice last time I got fired. Maybe I’ll get fired again…”

“Not if you do your job.”

“But Europe is so nice in the summer…”

The little hairs on his neck stand up when she begins tracing light figure eights on his back.

“Next time, I want to go to Paris.”

She moves closer to him, throws a leg over his and continues her ministrations on his back.

“Okay.” His voice is tired, mumbling still into the pillow. But then he turns his head, facing her and kisses her full on the lips. “I love you.”

As Stacy drifts off to sleep again, she realizes that it was the first time in three years those words had been said to her unprompted.


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back in town... realized i forgot to post this on here- though its on lj and ff.net. more coming as soon as beta starts rolling. gracias.
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lead me upstairs (6/?)

For the first time in a week, the stairway to the apartment is quiet by 7PM. The new downstairs neighbors have had an endless stream of visitors and housewarmings, all of them boisterous and openly expressing their love of the area and the rustic building. Stacy has begun to curse the design that makes noise in the stairway sound like it’s happening in the same room.

Watching the news after work, a few sleepless nights catch up with her. Stacy has fallen asleep on the couch, her feet propped up on the end and her head in Greg's lap. She can't remember when he moved, but he did- and now he's at the computer and her head is resting on one of the pillows she bought for his couch.

It’s his tapping at the keyboard that has woken her. The television is still on and the latest television detectives bully a rapist into a confession. Greg has a lamp on at the desk, but otherwise the room is dark. Stacy sits up, yawning, and pushes the blanket down to her waist. Her limbs are heavy with sleep and rests against the back of the couch, head tilted towards the ceiling.

She sighs loud enough for him to hear, but he doesn’t turn. He’s engrossed in whatever he’s doing. From the couch, she can see that he’s scanning a list of names on a website. There is an emblem of some sort in the top right corner of the page- a university or a hospital. The tapping is him scrolling down.

“Honey?”

The taps pause and he takes the pen out of his mouth. “Uh huh?” He doesn’t look at her.

“Let’s go to bed.”

“Busy.”

She pushes back against the couch, relaxing again. “You must be tired… you were up early today.”

“Uh huh.”

“The neighbors are finally quiet. Be good to get some rest.”

“Uh huh.”

“We’ve got to go up to my mother’s tomorrow, so we need to leave at about six, okay?”

“Hmm.”

“I’m pregnant with Wilson’s lovechild.”

“Uh huh.” His head lifts for a moment and he turns. “Wait, what was that last one?”

By the time he’s turned, however, she’s at his side, scanning the screen in which he’s absorbed.

“You aren’t listening to anything I’m saying. What are you looking at?”

“I think you just said you were pregnant…”

“Yep.” She continues looking at the website. It’s a list of people by the name of Kincade on a personal search engine. “But it’s Wilson’s,” she concludes.

“Thank god. I don’t have to pay child support then. He can’t live here though- Wilson's got bad bathroom habits, if you know what I mean...”

“Are you combing for contacts here or what?” She looks over the list under the light and quickly makes the connection between what’s on the screen and what’s on the paper. He’s written down two Virginia addresses and circled one. On the task bar, she can see another browser opened to a page entitled John Kincade, J.D.…”

“Who is this guy?”

He shrugs, moves his hand to the side and makes to close the window. “No one.”

“He’s someone.”

The window shuts and her eyes move back to the piece of paper. Then House flips the switch on the light and the room is dark except for the television. He grabs at her waist and brings her down to him. “You know, if you have a legal issue in Virginia, I know some people. ”

“Don’t have a legal issue.”

At times like this, he’s noncommittal in his conversation. She can tell he doesn’t want her to know, but he’ll answer truthfully if she asks the right questions. Otherwise, he’ll deflect and downplay. So she begins the routine that’s become so familiar over the past few years.

“Is he coming to work here?”

“Nope.” His fingers play with the edge of her shirt and creep underneath. She swats them away.

“Do you know him?”

“Kinda” He lowers his head and tries to kiss her. She puts two hands on his face and squeezes his cheeks.

“Work with him?”

“Not so much.” He grabs her hands and holds them down, smothering her in a kiss. She’s incapable of resisting until his grip loosens. “Let’s go to bed.”

Now she has an ‘in.’ “Tell me who he is.”

He sighs and lets his grip go completely and rubs his left arm. She stands and he follows, moving towards the bathroom. “He’s no one.”

“Then why were you looking him up?”

“He’s one of the top criminal solicitors in Virginia. Why wouldn’t I want to know him?” He shuts the door to the bathroom. When they go to bed that night, he’s facing away from her. She thinks that maybe he’s just tired. Maybe he just wants to sleep.

But in the early morning, she sees him at the desk again, coffee in hand, combing through websites and news articles. She can't help that she's curious by nature. If can't answer her questions, then she'll figure it out for herself. When he gets into the shower, she backtracks through his internet history and finds a webpage with graduates of the same high school. Greg House is not among those listed, but it's a Virginia high school and the graduation class fits. John Kincade and Greg House would have been in the same graduating class. She isn’t sure exactly where Greg went to high school, but she knows that for at least part of the time, he was in Virginia. She has an inkling that it must be the connection. Just behind that webpage is another: City of Hampton assessments and collections. When he comes from the shower, she shuts down the computer and moves away. By now, Stacy has learned when not to push, so she saves her questions for the right moment.

A few weeks later, she’s having dinner in Virginia with Greg and his parents. It’s his mother’s birthday. They’re talking about politics and Greg’s dad, previously quiet, pipes into the conversation. “I heard John is running for State Attorney General.” Stacy looks over the bowl of mashed potatoes and sees Greg forcefully swallow and look down. John House continues. “He’s a real fighter."

"Wasn't there something in the paper about him last week? Some kind of underhanded property deal... " Blythe comments, frowning. Greg shifts, uncomfortable.

"Slander." John waves a hand at his wife and continues. "I’d vote for him." He turns to Greg, pointing his fork at him before digging back into his mashed potatoes. "Plus he saved your sorry…”

Greg interrupts. “Kincade’s a jerk. Always has been.”

“He did you a favor.”

“He screwed me over.”

Awkward silence reigns as the two men stare at each other across the table. Blythe intercedes before anything else is said. “So how do you like your new position, Stacy? Greg tells me your office is closer…”

Stacy is glad that the conversation about Kincade stopped. But it doesn’t stop her curiosity from getting the best of her as she’s helping Blythe with the dishes. Greg has gone out, claiming that he needed the air. And John is reading the paper in front of the television downstairs.

She bends over to put a dish in the washer after Blythe has rinsed it. When she stands, she sighs and asks: “What did that guy do to Greg?”

It almost seems like Blythe House has expected the question and she gives Stacy a little smile and reaches for the next dirty dish. “Well,” she starts. “Greg was seventeen…” The way she tells the story is like a fable- a story of boys and troubles and the lessons learned. It’s not the story that Stacy expects to hear after she saw Greg’s reaction, his obsession. Even though the offense was minor (Kincade narced on an unsuspecting and experimenting Greg House, who thought that THC might enhance his perception of sound), the longstanding grudge was apparent. House never got past the fact that someone else had decided what was right for him. House also never got the chance to exact his revenge on Kincade and it had been a sore spot ever since.

Later that night as Stacy is mulling it over in the unfamiliar dark, Greg is asleep next to her. She’d asked about Kincade this time, in the hopes that he’d explain. But in the end, he turns a shoulder and drops off to sleep, claiming he’s too tired to think about it. She thinks of Greg's internet searches, of his preoccupation, of the newspaper article that Blythe mentioned; she hopes that he never needs to exact revenge against her.

Very very nice! :D Sorry I'm late to the party! :(

I'm absolutely loving this. Especially the part in India. I always imagined that something like that was part of House's attitude towards Dr. Charles in "TB or not TB". And you've nailed it with the line about not being bored. That the language and cultural barriers presented enough of a challenge that the diseases didn't need to be extraordinary to keep his attention. That he enjoyed it like nothing else he'd ever done and the infarction took that away from him.

Please keep at going and thanks for remembering to come back and share with us!

thanks :) it's (relatively) nice to be back- If only to avoid being concerned on whether or not my next meal will make me ill.... ;) I've got quite a few more parts of this waiting for commentary from my beta and I plan on continuing once I get in writing mode again. But I think I'll go climb a mountain now... too nice to sit at the computer today...

It certainly is, at least here in Ohio where there are no mpountains! :lol:

Enjoy your time outside and be careful (I know, where's the fun in that?! :P ).

Take care and please remember us when your next installment is ready. Maybe I'll have things updated over at the fanfic site by then! :blink: :(

Part 7

She’s placed herself under his right shoulder, but it feels like he’s not even trying to get up the stairs to the apartment. She’s got one hand braced on the wall and the other wrapped around his waist, balancing them both. Her hair keeps swinging into her face and catches in her mouth. By the fifth stair (halfway) sweat is trickling down her face and she has to stop to catch her breath.

“Honey, I gotta rest for a sec.”

This is a stupid idea- coming back to the apartment when Greg is in this shape. She should have never let him talk her into it. But he had been adamant. He wanted his bed, his bathroom. On any other day, she'd throw it back in his face. Today, the hurt and the pain dictate her silence.

“Okay.” He sounds out of breath too, and she lowers him to sit on the stair. He’s practically panting, red-faced, and he clutches at his leg. She knows it’s killing him, and shakes her head, wincing. She recalls a thousand times that Greg has run up these stairs, sweating and panting, after having already run ten miles on a Sunday morning. He’d done a marathon once- just to say that he’d done it. Stacy remembers how much he whined afterwards- about his legs, his back, the places where his clothing had rubbed his skin raw for 26 miles. Now, it feels strange that his agony is blatant, yet his mouth is pinched in a tight line. She has never seen him this weakened and she can’t stop the rising worry in her gut.

He was supposed to be at home resting, but when she called, he didn’t answer. Then Meg from the clinic had called her and told her that Greg was there pissing blood into a catheter and consenting to whatever Dr. Lorian suggested. In the end, the doctor suggested that Greg’s leg was a soft tissue injury incurred when he’d plunged a syringe full of Demerol through a layer of denim. The blood is from from a urinary tract infection and the prescriptions are in Stacy’s purse. She wants to be mad at him for doing this, for making their lives so complicated for a pulled muscle. But he’s practically writhing on the stair and he’s still not caught his breath. It seems like too much. They’ve got five more steps to go.

“You ready?” she says, pulling her hair behind her and into a ponytail.

He nods, still silent.

When she lowers him to the couch in the apartment ten minutes later, she is alarmed to find that his face is tear-stained. She can see the trail of the salt down his cheeks and his eyes are red. She gets him a glass of water and another full of cranberry juice and tells him to drink them both. He pushes the cranberry away, complaining that it tastes like crap and that he'll have to drink his weight in it to make a difference, but he gulps the water.

Stacy stands in front of him, her hands on her hips, watching. His hands are trembling and she’s not sure Lorian was right. But she’s not a doctor, afterall, and Greg consented, took the advice, and let her drive him home. He's barely said anything to her at all.

To House, the past two days have been one nightmare after the next. The inexplicable pain and a clinic doctor's incompetence had ruined a perfectly good round of golf. He'd been in so much pain that he hadn't even gotten through the admission forms before someone was helping him into an examination room. His name wouldn't even appear on the "watch" list. And the Demerol allowed him to go peacably- laughing even- as he walked out to get a cab home. In the evening, he and Stacy had laughed about it together as he'd allowed the lingering Demerol to mix with a few beers. The pain was completely gone and he felt good, despite Stacy's insistance that maybe he should take it easy for a few days. But this morning, the remains of the Demerol and the beer flowed into the toilet and the pain was back. So much for the power of positive thinking.

He'd struggled out of bed, already feeling weak and tired, and made up his mind to confront the clinic doctor about the incident the day prior. If anything, the kid could use a good talking to. You just didn't hold a syringe of Demerol up to a screaming patient's face and expect the patient to do nothing. But again, he found himself in the waiting room, fingers digging into his thigh, as a nurse guided him back to an examination room. The incompetent new doctor was nowhere in sight, but another, Dr. Lorian, was proving that anesthesia really wasn't necessary during catherization. House couldn't help but believe that the two doctors had talked.

Lorian wasn't one to hide his contempt of House and seemed nonplussed when the bag filled with urine and blood was held up in front of him by his belligerant patient and contemptable co-worker. "Yeah... and I'm a drug seeking addict," House had ranted as Lorian wrote in the chart.

"This is a UTI, House."

"In my leg?"

"You pulled a muscle. And stabbing yourself with a needle yesterday wasn't the best of ideas either. I'm recommending bed rest and I'll prescribe you an antibiotic for the UTI."

House had let his head fall back at Lorian's stubborn rationalizations. "Then test me." Lorian was nodding. "All in the work-up, House. Takes a few days- you know that."

"MRI then. To make sure I didn't do any real damage." The argument seemed borderline- even to him. But his leg actually hurt. It hurt more than any pulled muscle he'd ever had. To his recollection, it hurt even more than a broken leg in junior high. Lorian's response was another sigh and a shake of his head. "If you want a second opinion, then go get one."

By the time Stacy had wondered down to the clinic, he'd given up all hope of convincing Lorian to do anything besides tack on some high dose ibuprofen for the pain. Even Cuddy had stepped in and ordered House to go home. Resigned, tired, and still hurting, he'd let Stacy push him in a wheelchair out to her car. He'd needed help getting in the passenger seat. The stairs had been a third nightmare that he never wanted to relive, though he was glad to be home on the couch.

House has decided that if he'd done some kind of muscular damage to his leg, then it'll eventually heal. He'll ice down for a few days, lay low, take it easy. The UTI will clear up; the leg will heal. If Stacy will stop staring at him, then everything will be just fine.

“Take a picture- probably last longer,” he remarks. He half drops the empty glass onto the coffee table.

She sighs and collects the glass, placing it next to the sink for later. When she comes back she resumes her position in front of him. “Are you sure that Lorian…”

“What do you want me to say? I don’t have a better answer.”

“It’s just that…”

“What?” He’s angry now and he’s got nowhere else to direct it.

“You’re in pain.” He nods and makes to lift his legs onto the couch, grimacing. She goes to help him, feeling the tightness in his right quad. “This isn’t right, Greg…”

“Bed rest and antibiotics. I can’t think of a better way to spend my day.”

“Maybe we should get that second opinion.”

“It’ll be fine.”

Stacy is unsure, but what can she do? Wilson is across the country. Cuddy has sided up to Lorian. No one is listening and she’s terrified that this is something more serious. She’s seen Greg with a hay fever, the flu, with pulled muscles. He dramatizes the small stuff and he whines until she babies him. But he’s never cried before. And he’s not playing this one up- it appears he’s actually doing the opposite. She doesn't know what to make of it- but yet she's learned, somehow, to trust his judgment. Just because he's the patient this time shouldn't make it any different. But rationality and trust don't help dissolve the ball of worry in the pit of her stomach.

In the morning, he looks better. He says he’s in less pain, so she goes to work and leaves Greg with the remote control in his hand and Judge Judy ranting to a mother about the example she's setting for her kids. Stacy runs into Cuddy at lunch, who inevitably asks her about Greg. She tells her that he’s fine, but that it just doesn’t seem right to her. She tells Cuddy that Greg isn’t overplaying- he’s actually in pain. Cuddy tries to reassure her: he’s sulking because it was his fault, it’s nothing, and it’ll pass. Strangely, it does nothing to calm Stacy's nerves.

Four days later, House wakes up having dreamed that he's trying to talk to Stacy, but is so weakened he can't speak. The words are running across his mind, but he can't convince his mouth to move. The dream isn't far off from reality and his arms flop above his head and then curl under the cool pillows as Stacy sits on the bed smelling like shampoo and that lotion that he got her for her birthday. She puts a hand through his hair and he sighs at the feeling, wishing he was in the mood for something else. But he just isn't. He's tired. He needs sleep. He needs to get better.

As of last night, he was still pissing blood, though it was more brown tinged than red and there wasn't much. And his leg pain has diminished, but the heaviness has grown. His foot is all pins and needles. Maybe because he's lying down all the time. Maybe because of the swelling on a pulled muscle. Who knows? Who cares? Every rational bit of medical information he has gathered from his own body tells him that something isn't right. His ongoing symptoms don't match a UTI and soft tissue damage, but he keeps waiting it out because he can't think straight and god, but he really just needs to lay down for a little while and shut his eyes.


He mumbles that he doesn't feel so great and that he's taking another day off work. Stacy asks him, for the third time that morning, if they shouldn't get another opinion because he should've been better by now. But he shakes his head. He's too tired to go anywhere. Why won't she just leave him and let him sleep? "Must be the antibiotic," he mumbles, to get her moving. He wants to tell her more- that antibiotics sometimes leave the body open to other opportunistic infections. Throws off natural chemistry. Can make you tired, make you hurt. Maybe the infection moved to his kidneys. But his pillow is soft, and if he lies just right on it, the light coming from the window isn't too bad. His eyes won't stay open and he doesn't feel like conversation. "I dunno," he continues. "Go to work." She leans down to kiss him on the check and then he's sleeping before the door shuts.

At noon, Stacy drives home from work for lunch to check on Greg like she's done every day this week. She can't help but still worry and especially this morning when he openly admitted that he didn't feel well. He'd been so groggy. When she parks the car outside the apartment, she has an unexplainable sinking feeling in her gut. She practically runs up the stairs, opening the door quietly, trying not to wake him if he’s still sleeping (and he’s been doing a lot of that lately). “Greg?” she calls, tentative. There is no response. She sees that he hasn’t even made it to the couch today and there’s nothing but silence from the bedroom. “Greg.” More assertive now. She pushes her uneasiness aside and goes to the kitchen to open the fridge, thinking he’ll wake up and ask her to make him lunch. But he doesn’t.

She’s halfway through making two sandwiches, when she finally decides to go into the bedroom. He’s picky sometimes and she wants to know if he wants roast beef or turkey.

“Honey, roast beef or turkey?” She pokes her head around the door. He’s facing away from her, his back exposed, legs twisted in the sheets. He doesn’t respond.

She goes to sit on the bed, putting a hand on his shoulder. His skin is dry and clammy. “Greg…”

He’s not stirring. She rolls him to his back and gasps. There is blood running from his nose and smearing onto the white sheets. She taps his cheek and pinches his arm, but there’s no response. When she feels the pulse at his neck, it’s slow and erratic. “Oh my god…” she whispers. Then she runs to the telephone.

House comes back to consciousness as Stacy's movements cause the mattress to rebound. But when he moves his head to see where she is, the whole world shifts and he's gasping for a breath against the nausea welling up his esophagus. Maybe it wasn't the amoxicillin, because he can't remember getting this sick from them before. Vaguely, he wonders about the time of day, why there seems to be a smear of blood on his pillow, why he's too tired to get the glass of water on the table. "Honey?" It's Stacy. He struggles to open his eyes and sees a blurry outline of her before she descends and blocks his view of her face with her body. He tries to speak to her, ask her why she isn't at work, but it comes out as a "Whaaaydoere?" The bed dips again and the movement sends him into another spinning tilt-a-whirl. This time he can't help but retch. Stomach acid and the little he ate last night (chicken soup) burn his throat and nose. He hears a vague "God," and something about them coming soon. But he can't think of who it might be. No one should be coming- not when he's in this state.

When the retching stops, Stacy pushes him back against the pillows and is wiping his nose and mouth with a cloth. He tries to move his hand up to take the cloth, but his limbs are heavy. When he looks down, they appear swollen. As the cloth comes away from his face a second time, there is red against the white. Blood. For a moment, his mind is activated again. Bloody nose. Lethargy. Decreased urine. Swelling. The pain in his leg. Pain. Wasn't there before. He didn't pull it. Soft tissue damage. Brown urine- not red. Brown.

Stacy is still running the cloth against his forehead and he manages to move his hand up to catch it. "'s no good," he manages. "Need a hospital."

He realizes that she's nodding at him and saying "I know... they're coming." He sighs against the tired and sick consuming his mind and body and tries again.

"Kidneys."

"What is it?"

"'m dying." It's not exactly what he wanted to say, but it gets the point across. If he doesn't get treatment, he will die. And from the way he's feeling, it may be sooner rather than later.

She grabs for his hand then and squeezes so hard that he winces. "You're fine, Greg. You're sick, but we'll get you better."

"'s gotta be..." he pauses, swallows, "in my leg... the muscle."

"Shhh," she murmurs, still holding his hand. "The ambulance is coming. Save your strength."

"Stacy... muscle death," he gasps. "Killing my kidneys."

"Okay," she whispers, running a hand against his cheek.

He lifts his head from the pillow for a moment. "You tell them," he says with a force that neither of them thought he had left. It's desperate, demanding. His head drops back to the pillow and Stacy nods her consent at his instruction. The effort of the thought and talk are too much to continue. He focuses instead on breathing, on not puking, on staying conscious. She wipes his nose again and there is fresh blood on the cloth.

The doorbell rings and she stands, racing down the stairs to open the door for the paramedics. When they get to the bedroom, House is unconscious and unresponsive again and Stacy repeats what she's learned: "Muscle death," she says. "He says his kidneys are shutting down."

Nomad, I know the weather is lovely and you should go outside enjoying it and life but I'm a selfish little bugger and I want more!!! :lol:

Once again very nice. I like the way you portray Stacy in this. So many folks are hostile towards Stacy but my thought is there had to be something there that attracted House and I think you get that across. Great groundwork for her decision to use her proxy rights the way that she did.

Also, even though we don't know how long House was in the hospital prior to the reveal in "Three Stories", this lead up and House's thought process on what's wrong is on the mark. Knowing there is something amiss but siding with the facts instead of the emotions and gut feelings. So very typically House.

Great Job, I can't wait for more! :D

PS: SO how were your travels? I see you are home safe and sound. Any interesting stories to tell? Pictures to share? Places to recommend?

rt- heh... the weather is crappy these days anyway. i live to go to the gym now. ;) Thanks for the feedback- it's hard to come by these days, but this stuff is so much fun to write. I suppose I'm one of the few that actually liked House and Stacy together and can imagine how it all worked out. I've got plenty more sections and added another last night. But I'm taking my time with them now because I've got oh so much to do ;)

my travels were fantastic, of course. I saw soooo much, met some cool people, did a lot of things i've wanted to do. My favorite places were definitely the least "civilized"- Cambodia and Nepal! Laos was great for the quiet of it and the people I met there. And Thailand is Thailand... nice vacation spot ;) I have a travelpod page where i keep a bunch of photos and stories and such and if you (and anyone else) wants to check it out, that's fine by me :) http://www.travelpod.com/members/crazystrange

Cool, Thanks for the link. I took a quick peek yesterday and plan to get back there over the weekend and really read and look at the pictures in more detail. I am very envious but so happy you have the opportunity to travel. It's all in the choices we make and I think you've made some good ones.

I also like the less civilized areas or at least the less touristy areas. When we were in Ireland the only touristy place we went is the Cliffs of Mohor and Bunratty Castle. I just couldn't pass up the Cliffs. We did a lot of coastline but at least in what I saw, nothing was quite as spectacular as Mohor!

And Bunratty we only did because it was the last night and we wanted to stay close to the airport. It was just something to do that night (and the gal that was traveling with us wanted to go). It was fun but certainly not my favorite part of the trip.

I enjoyed the isolated beach or overgrown cemetary and ruins far more that any of that. And doing the Connor Pass on a cold misty is just fantastic.

So how was the language barrier? I know most countries require kids to learn English but alot of the more rural areas the kids may not have schooling or only minimal schooling. And with no immediate need to speak or know English I'd imagine you would have had to have some knowledge of their language.

Did you learn or did you have someone that could translate?

Anyhow, back to the fic. I read it over again this weekend and I really love the little things about this. Again, the way that Stacy "gets" House almost from the start. That she has learned when to push and when not to but knew that this would be something she would have to learn. She also understand that sometimes he needs someone to stand up to him. To bully him when he's wrong so to speak.

How House is kind of unknowingly taken with her. It isn't like he is all starry-eyed in love from the start but knows there is something different and special about this woman. For once going with his gut and emotions and not cold hard facts (although I'm betting those were considered and at least worked for him for the most part).

I am intrigued with the idea that what started out as probably just a one-night stand for both of them turned into that mythical kind of love. How did that happen with this guy that seems so emotionally stunted? What was it about her that did it? It's just such fertile grounds for exploration but so few have handled it in a believeable way IMO.

You are doing a wonderful job. I hate to say this because they really are two very different fics but this reminds me a bit of Benj's wonderful fic "So Long and Thanks for...". He did a great job of getting across the complexities of their relationship just as you are.

I too liked House and Stacy and love fics that treat that relationship in a positive light. House really did love her and still does. I think he showed that in letting her go. And I think it's the same for Stacy.

I'm glad to hear there is more on the way and I will certainly come back to read and leave a comment or two.

What language barrier? Travel in that area is easy. Every once in a while, you might have to point or explain something very slowly, but otherwise, pretty much everyone knows a little English- especially in the major cities. And the kids around Angkor Wat were really impressive as far as language goes. They might be considered "rural" and definitely poor- they sell postcards, t-shirts, books, etc just so they can afford to go to school the next day. But their English is usually great. I had full conversations with a group of kids over lunch one day. And then the really small kids are selling postcards and saying their numbers in about 10 languages. There was a really cool kid near Kathmandu- a real smarty with great English. I learned approximately 2 phrases per country- Hello and Thank you. Every once in a while I would learn something else, but the lack of regular use made those all go away. As for touristy places- sometimes places are touristy for a reason... and while you may have to endure the crowds, it's worth the experience. Angkor Wat- definitely touristy!

Ireland sounds fantastic... a place I always meant to get to and have yet to do so. Next time, I suppose!

I need to get back to writing. I've been such a bum....