Kate (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} ladydothprotest) wrote,@ 2008-02-01 23:37:00 |
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| Current mood: |  Relieved |
| Current music: | "Grazed Knees" by Snow Patrol |
This was definitely a labor of love.
Title: “The Four Women Gregory House Actually Gave a Damn About”
Pairing: House-centric, with a little something for everyone. (House/Cuddy, House/Stacy, and YES, House/Cameron)
Rating: PG-13 by default.
Summary: You blew it. A little exploration of the significant women in House’s life and how he, well…was House. Rated because he’s House, also for mentions of (canon) child abuse and not-so-veiled sex talk.
“You had the perfect person, and you blew it…and I’m talking about every woman you ever gave a damn about.”
James Wilson, “Kids”
*
Blythe (“Don’t lie, honey.”) – 1978
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
The cigarette was already extinguished—ground into the jagged crevices of the concrete patio, just a fading orange smear of embers—by the time his mother had sat down next to him on the steps, facing out into the darkening void of their silent backyard.
Without a word, she placed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
“How was dessert?” he asked a moment later, with perfected, feigned casualness.
“Good.” She replied with a smile, rubbing his shoulder blade now. It was dark and hot, the liquid kind of heat that made the air heavy on one’s shoulders. Fireflies winked in at the tips of the grass blades, and traffic churned off in the distance.
Blythe examined her son’s brooding profile in the relative darkness. He wasn’t quite filled out yet, not like John—he wouldn’t ever be. He was lean, and attractive in his own right; more a man than a boy now, and definitely more troubled.
His rounded shoulders and long, sinewy limbs were hunched in a defensive, wallish form around him, now, and his eyes—beautiful, blue eyes that were the same color as a cloudless sky and just as unreadable—were hooded with thought as they stared at the ground between his sneakers. His head was tipped forward, too, allowing a few brown waves for obscure his brow.
“Greg, you know—,”
“—Right. I know how he is.” He snapped at her, though without much enthusiasm, more just bitterness. The rubbing stopped and she withdrew her hand, folding it in a clasp on her lap.
“Don’t take him seriously.” She whispered for fear of being heard, but also because to speak louder would have invited tears. Something about that night, something about the look in Greg’s eyes, something about the way they sat there now, made her feel desperate.
Without a word he stood, his jeans sliding down his thin legs and his tee shirt ends unfurling a bit as well. He put his hands in his pockets, still staring at the ground, and proceeded into the back yard.
Watching his back as he walked a few feet and paused near the edge of the yard where it met some sparse forestry, Blythe squeezed her hands together and entreated him again, but he didn’t hear her.
He wasn’t there, not really. He wasn’t eighteen, either, on the eve of his liberation from his father’s household.
He was eight. Or twelve. Or fourteen.
Standing in the backyard, in the rain, in his under shorts and nothing else as the icy needles of moisture sprinkled his skin with a thousand tiny slices and night descended upon his lonesome figure.
Or in the bathtub, gasping for breath as two meaty hands pressed him painfully against the porcelain as he struggled, swashing the frigid water and ice chunks about the bathroom.
Yeah, he knew what his father was like. And what she was like, too.
She was still talking when he turned towards her.
“Greg, please, please, don’t take this any more serious than any of the rest of it.” She was begging him now, and it occurred to him he never heard her this upset. Her words were always calm, consoling, soft—you know how your father is, as she ran a warm bath, dabbed at gashes, or held a compress to his bruises.
It also occurred that he didn’t care.
“I have to pack.” He mumbled simply, cutting her off. She stood, slowly and awkwardly.
“Oh…okay.”
He nodded, stalking back across the yard and up the steps.
As he passed her, Blythe reached a hand out to his elbow, stopping him but not compelling more than that—his eyes stayed fixed ahead.
“I love you, Greg. I love you very much.” She whispered, pressing her fingers into the grasp on his arm.
That made him turn his head and regard her with a deceivingly bland expression.
She was apologizing, as much as she ever could or would.
I love you--please forgive me for the rest of it, for letting him.
He could have screamed at her, unleashing the anger and acidic hate that was coiled in his gut. But frankly, that was an effort his heart wouldn’t be in; his anger had dissolved into unenthused bitterness long ago.
He could have told her he loved her, too, hugged her, so that she could feel at least a little absolved. That way, maybe, in years to come after his father was dead, they could rebuild their relationship. That would require a lot of time, a lot of unasked questions asked, and undoubtedly, old pain brought screaming back to the surface.
Faced with that, he stared into his mother’s pleading eyes and said nothing.
He was leaving in the morning, and never coming back. She didn’t realize that, that he was going to leave it all in the past, trapped in the blackness of the backyard, or in the house to die a choking death in the upstairs bathroom. That would be hard on her when she figured it out, but then, he wouldn’t be around to feel guilty.
He was removing himself, just like she had done so many years before, so there would be no more hurt.
No more you know how your father is, no more he’s an unhappy man, or he loves you but can’t show it, or from the later years he can’t help it, he’s been broken, he’s so troubled, or any one of the other plethora of hollow rationalizations she kept on tab for each time his father used him as his personal prisoner of war.
And there would be no more wondering why she never, not once, stopped him.
*
Lisa (“This ship sailed long ago.”) – 1988
He shouldn’t be going after her. It was stupid, pointless—she wasn’t going to take this shit from him. That had been why he did it in the first place.
But for some reason he found himself fumbling with his zipper—a dangerous task in a poorly lit lab office—as Mandy straightened her tousled blonde mane.
“Who was that?” she asked distractedly, not the least bit embarrassed at being caught on her knees with her head in a man’s lap, which had been part of her initial appeal.
Opening his mouth, he thought better of it. Another pointless gesture. So he shook his head dismissively instead.
Mandy crossed her arms over her ample chest and frowned.
“Must be someone. You didn’t even let me finish.”
He contemplated just driving back to his apartment, the deed done, the break made, and actually drove about ten minutes in that direction before pulling a decidedly illegal U-turn and changing course.
Her roommate, a giantress but a babe nonetheless named Nicole, answered the door. The stench of her hatred was so powerful he almost had to step back.
“Look, I know you’re all about protecting the Sisterhood, but if you could just tell her I’m here—,” before he could finish his entreaty, she moved to the side, though retained her hostile stance of I-will-castrate-you-at-the-first-opportu
As if to explain why she wasn’t acting on this desire, she informed him crisply, “She told me to let you in if you showed up.”
Puzzled but relieved, Greg slid past her cautiously and strode to the back of the apartment.
Bracing for an onslaught, he let the door shut audibly and even though she jumped slightly, her look to him was composed. It was deliberately brief, and even if her eyes were still showing remnants of a crying jag and her lips were puffy—she chewed them when she was upset—it was a relief not to have her freaking out presently.
However, when she muttered, “Hey, Greg,” he felt his chest tighten.
“Hey…” He greeted cautiously, sensing a trap. He edged toward her, letting his bag drop on the desk chair—its usual inconvenient spot—and only stared.
“I redid the, uh,” she swallowed, but continued to bore her bright eyes into the paper clutched in her fingers, “section about my clinical time last summer. I sounded too pretentious—I don’t want to be off-putting.”
He came to a halt about two feet from her, standing at the foot of her bed.
“Okay…” he watched as she moved to her desk, nudging his bag to the side to sit and scribble some notes.
“Do you think I should keep the bit about the Henry trials? Those results didn’t come back yet, and if they don’t come back with at least a thirty percent—,”
“—You’re seriously talking about this?”
She was seated facing away from him, but he was able to perceive her tiny frame stiffen under the slightly oversized tee shirt.
“Yes.” She replied through gritted teeth. “I’d still like your help with my application. You got into Hopkins—once.”
Furrowing his brows, Greg crossed his arms.
“Didn’t realize you were the look-the-other-way type.” He pressed.
After a horrified pause, she slammed the paper on her desk and stood, turning on him.
“Do you want to talk about it, Greg? Want to brag how you just met her ten minutes before and she was still willing to go down on you? What do you want?” she demanded, her voice quickly rising. Her whole body was trembling now, her fists clenched, and Freddie Mercury’s mocking smile on the front of her tee shirt emphasizing his wretchedness.
“So you are upset.” He spoke with deceiving ease, “I was beginning to think you didn’t care.”
Now he was just hurting her because he couldn’t think of anything else to do, because he felt guilty now but it was too late so he might as well put this failed experiment to an end.
He didn’t know why he’d ever thought it was a good idea.
Upon meeting her he’d felt a sense to keep his hands off—not just because she was an undergraduate but also because she was her and something he felt he wouldn’t be able to easily disentangle himself from—but it had been one of those things that had to happen.
Because she was under his skin, all the time, ever since they met—and on the rare occasions when it wasn’t driving him up a wall, it was still making him crazy.
And now, before he could brace himself, she strode across the room and grabbed his shirt in her fists, dragging his mouth to hers in the same motion. She did it with force, and even bit him—hard.
He was glad for her anger—she was entitled, and it would make things easier.
Unfortunately it didn’t last long. After a few minutes of struggling against each other and forceful oral assaults, a tiny sob leaked into his mouth from hers.
Pressing his palms to her shoulders, he set her back enough just to breathe, “Lisa…”
“Stop it!” she snapped, tears streaming unabashedly from her eyes and her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
“Calm down.” He instructed, about to smooth her cheeks with his palms, but was cut off abruptly when she cracked him across the face.
“I hate…” she seethed through tears not of hate but unadulterated hurt, using her whitened fists to rhythmically pound into his sternum.
Managing to wedge his hands under hers and regain control, Greg held her fast until she wasn’t cursing him or trying to hurt him anymore, just crying.
Sobbing, really, so hard that he feared for her brain cells and their oxygen deprivation.
When she finally calmed down—five agonizing minutes later—he slowly released her and spoke first.
“I’ll go.”
She only pressed her hands to her face as he moved past her.
He’d asked for this, he’d known even before Mandy was tugging his zipper down that this was how it was going to end—he just didn’t plan to be around for it.
But he was, and of all the emotions dueling in his gut, regret wasn’t one of them. He’d had to come. She…deserved that.
He was just about out the door when he heard a faint, “No.”
When he turned and frowned at her response, she just shook her head.
“You can go, but don’t…don’t because of me.”
“You wouldn’t rather—,”
“No,” she cut him off, giving her eyes a last wipe with the back of her hands. “It’s not…I’m not surprised.”
Mouth ajar, Greg wondered who had swooped in while he wasn’t looking and snatched the woman who had just moments ago been punching him in the chest.
“You’re not going to string up some Greg House voodoo dolls and chant?” he asked seriously, the joke more for himself than her.
Smoothing her palms down her tee shirt, Lisa shook her head.
“There’s no point. There never really was. This was inevitable.” Moving calmly back to the desk, she picked up her application and pen.
“All’s forgiven?” he asked incredulously.
“There’s no reason to keep talking about it.” She informed him, her voice unmistakably sad but her control steady and sure now as she began taking more notes. “You’re you—you’re House—and you’ll never be anything else. I knew that, I always have, and it was stupid of me to think that if we…”
She trailed off, and turned to him, her eyes soft as she unknowingly caught her lower lip between her teeth.
He shook his head slowly. “No. Keep going with that thought, and say bon voyage to this ship.”
Releasing her lip, Lisa nodded slowly.
“I will.” Collecting her application, she inhaled deeply. “Now can we get to work?”
*
Stacy (“With you, I was lonely.”) – 1999
She came home from work and didn’t say a word.
He didn’t either, but that was business as usual as of late.
She politely shut the door gently behind her, hung her jacket on the coat rack, set her briefcase on the desk, and proceeded directly back to the bedroom. He watched it unfold in the reflection on the television screen, but didn’t take any action.
He was still clumsy with the cane, and figured following her like a peg-legged pirate wouldn’t create the most striking figure. So as the faint sounds of her rustling in the bedroom and then in the bathroom and then back to the bedroom prickled in his ears, he remained seated and did nothing.
The 6 o’clock news theme was coming to jangling, canned-jazz life when she stepped in front of the television.
“I’m going to stay at a hotel tonight.” Her crossed arms told him, as he didn’t bother to lift his gaze from them.
Once again, he didn’t say a word. After a satisfactorily insulting amount of time passed, Stacy reached down and turned the television she’d be mostly blocking anyway off.
“Do you even give a damn?” she asked, her voice strained but no tears in sight. She didn't cry—she had no reason to. She was the better person here, the one making the stand, the one taking control of her life—and she’d obviously thought it over, made her peace.
Raising his eyes and swallowing, his mouth hot with fever and bitter with pills, he shook his head.
“Wouldn’t recommend room service after 10. The fee is ridiculous.”
Pressing her lips so tightly together the color of them disappeared, Stacy nodded.
“Right. Of course not.” She moved away, arms still tightly crossed, and strode to the bedroom, shouting, “But then, Greg, when I leave, who are you going to blame for all your problems?”
His face contorted in bitterness, his stomach somersaulting.
“Right. What would I do without all the condescension and patronizing bullshit if you’re gone!” he shouted.
When she reemerged, she had her overnight bag in her hand, but came to a halt in the doorway.
“That anger is going to consume you, Greg, and kill you faster than the damned Vicodin.” She spoke calmly, pride the only thing keeping her anger and devastation in check.
“Lucky me. I hear liver failure is a bitch.”
She breathed deeply, straightening her long frame.
“I wish you cared.”
Squinting at her, he was about to speak, unleash another barb so that his blood wasn’t the only one spilled, but she cut him off.
“Not even about me—I know that’s a lost cause. I wish you cared about you.”
Letting his chin drop slightly, he pursed his lips. Any words he could have conjured in that moment hurled themselves back down his throat.
Ironically, it seemed like his silence upset her more.
Tears—but no sobs, no real crying—blossomed on her dark lashes, and a small whimper hiccupped in her throat as she moved around to the front of the couch.
He straightened, prepared to compensate however he could for her height and his current condition, but before he could properly do so, she lowered herself to her knees between his so they were eye-to-eye, and pressed her cool hands on either side of his prickly face.
Her hands smelled like cocoa butter, that ridiculous stuff she kept in her desk, in her purse, in the bathroom, and in various other places in their world even though her skin never seemed to need it.
And now, the smell of it pervaded his senses as the silky pads of her palms and fingers smoothed the irregular folds and planes on his face slowly, her tear-sparkling eyes following their motions.
“I love you.” She said, though he wasn’t sure if the words ever became vocalized or if her trembling lips just mouthed them.
Despite wanting to pull himself away—and even moreso to push her away—House was anchored on the couch, in her embrace, of sorts.
After a few moments, she slowly brought her forehead to his, closing her eyes and running her fingers up over the skin of his temples and settling them into the scraggly edges of his hair.
All he would have had to do was press himself forward an inch—less than, really, probably just the space of breath—and he could kiss her.
But it wouldn’t matter. Stacy wouldn't do something like this if she hadn’t thought it through, and if she’d thought it through, a single stupid kiss wasn’t going to change her mind.
So he breathed deeply, committing the cocoa butter and creamy coffee smell of her to memory, before sitting back, leaving her and himself cold.
She remained knelt before him for a long beat after—not looking anymore hurt than she had before, which confirmed his belief that he couldn’t have changed her mind even if he tried—before slowly rising.
“Take care of yourself, Greg. For you.”
A sour, humorless laugh chuffed harshly from his throat, and she flinched, but didn’t say anything else.
She pressed a kiss to the tips of her middle three fingers, then drew them across his cheek feather-light as she made her way back around the couch to get her bag and go.
*
Allison (“...you just couldn’t love me.”) – 2004
In retrospect, asking Wilson for dating advice was like reading his horoscope.
Any idiot knew to compliment a woman every way that was even slightly believable—he had had a date or two, even some sex (for free), in his life.
In retrospect, he should have picked Cuddy’s brain. But then, all the little demons would have escaped and he would go down in history as the Pandora of Princeton.
No, he was better off just doing this off the cuff—even if that felt like traveling into a minefield blindfolded.
This image in his mind, he snuck a glance to the passenger’s seat.
She was relaxed, totally at ease, her one arm resting on the ledge of the window and propping up her chin as she watched the scenery pulse by.
Little minx.
How she’d managed to manipulate him into this was beyond him, but he wasn’t oblivious enough to think that an element of it wasn’t that he wanted to.
But there were still a couple vexing points. Vexing points that included but were not limited to the fact that she was, literally, quicksand—quicksand with legs up to her armpits, an ass that wouldn’t quit, a face that was carved into many a Viking warship, and a way of looking at him that made him aware of his own breath and blood and skin, his own humanity.
The fact remained, however, under all of that, she was quicksand. If he got too far in, past his ankles, he’d never get out.
And it would be her problem, in the end, because he was getting too old to fight, to keep pushing people out.
He would let himself consume her—he wouldn’t even have to do much. She liked the broken, the wounded, and if he let her, she would devote herself to fixing him because she would never stop to think, not even for a second, that he couldn’t be fixed.
And a part of him could—would, wanted—to let her.
Because he was getting old, and tired, and the concentrated effort of pushing out people was getting exhausting.
But if he let that happen, if he let himself sink into the enveloping abyss of being cared for, it would ruin her. She survived the first husband—he only lived a year, and he seemed like the type to embrace the last months and do things like sky dive and travel and say meaningfully sentimental things.
House would do none of that, and while his death was probably going to be premature, it was by no means going to be soon. Work would consume his days and his own torment—the leg, the drugs, the memories of darkness and ice water—would consume his nights, and he’d lash out at her, for no other reason than she was there.
Or worse, he’d ignore her. While she probably thought he’d open up even more when they weren’t “just” co-workers, the truth was his co workers had always been a privileged class—look at Cuddy and Wilson—over everyone else, because everyone else was out there, beyond the safety of the numbers and facts of medicine, where he had no clue how to function.
So he’d work, and ignore her, and she would only feel worse because he wouldn’t be fixed. He was on a downward spiral and nothing was going to reverse that—but she would refuse to accept that, even entertain the notion.
And someday, she would find herself sitting next to her son on their back porch, in the cover of darkness and the simmering summer heat, rubbing his shoulder and whispering words of comfort, words of comfort like, you know how your father is.
Her eyes quickly left the window when he shifted in the driver’s seat.
“Leg cramping?” she inquired quickly but quietly, concern bundling her words.
“Yeah.” He wedged the orange bottle from his pocket, popped the lid with the tip of his thumb, and knocked two back.
When he reached for the lid, she interceded, taking the bottle with a sad half-smile, and slowly replacing the lid herself.
Giving her a funny look—since at work she always flinched, just a little, when he dosed—he watched as a very familiar expression formed on her face.
“Whatever helps.” She told him with a soft, sad shrug and an accepting half-smile.
“Right.” He muttered, driving the rest of the way in silence.
He knew what he had to do. He knew for months. And little ways, he tried to get it done—tried to make her see the truth, the inevitable House-ness that wasn’t going to be eradicated or softened but would, if anything, grow more impenetrable and callous.
But no matter how much he knew he had to do it, he couldn’t quite bring himself to, not for sure. He couldn’t bring himself to make that grand gesture that would sever her attachment, her care.
So he did it slowly, over months and years until finally, she was with someone else, caring about someone else, no longer giving him meaningful stares or quietly trying to reroute his self-guided path to Perdition.
And that was fine with him. It had been since he was eighteen—the less people caring, the less people loving, the less he had to concern himself with doing the same, and someday, he’d be completely free.
Or at least, he’d be completely alone.
He didn’t let himself think about the fact that the two were not necessarily the same.
James Wilson, “Kids”
*
Blythe (“Don’t lie, honey.”) – 1978
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
The cigarette was already extinguished—ground into the jagged crevices of the concrete patio, just a fading orange smear of embers—by the time his mother had sat down next to him on the steps, facing out into the darkening void of their silent backyard.
Without a word, she placed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
“How was dessert?” he asked a moment later, with perfected, feigned casualness.
“Good.” She replied with a smile, rubbing his shoulder blade now. It was dark and hot, the liquid kind of heat that made the air heavy on one’s shoulders. Fireflies winked in at the tips of the grass blades, and traffic churned off in the distance.
Blythe examined her son’s brooding profile in the relative darkness. He wasn’t quite filled out yet, not like John—he wouldn’t ever be. He was lean, and attractive in his own right; more a man than a boy now, and definitely more troubled.
His rounded shoulders and long, sinewy limbs were hunched in a defensive, wallish form around him, now, and his eyes—beautiful, blue eyes that were the same color as a cloudless sky and just as unreadable—were hooded with thought as they stared at the ground between his sneakers. His head was tipped forward, too, allowing a few brown waves for obscure his brow.
“Greg, you know—,”
“—Right. I know how he is.” He snapped at her, though without much enthusiasm, more just bitterness. The rubbing stopped and she withdrew her hand, folding it in a clasp on her lap.
“Don’t take him seriously.” She whispered for fear of being heard, but also because to speak louder would have invited tears. Something about that night, something about the look in Greg’s eyes, something about the way they sat there now, made her feel desperate.
Without a word he stood, his jeans sliding down his thin legs and his tee shirt ends unfurling a bit as well. He put his hands in his pockets, still staring at the ground, and proceeded into the back yard.
Watching his back as he walked a few feet and paused near the edge of the yard where it met some sparse forestry, Blythe squeezed her hands together and entreated him again, but he didn’t hear her.
He wasn’t there, not really. He wasn’t eighteen, either, on the eve of his liberation from his father’s household.
He was eight. Or twelve. Or fourteen.
Standing in the backyard, in the rain, in his under shorts and nothing else as the icy needles of moisture sprinkled his skin with a thousand tiny slices and night descended upon his lonesome figure.
Or in the bathtub, gasping for breath as two meaty hands pressed him painfully against the porcelain as he struggled, swashing the frigid water and ice chunks about the bathroom.
Yeah, he knew what his father was like. And what she was like, too.
She was still talking when he turned towards her.
“Greg, please, please, don’t take this any more serious than any of the rest of it.” She was begging him now, and it occurred to him he never heard her this upset. Her words were always calm, consoling, soft—you know how your father is, as she ran a warm bath, dabbed at gashes, or held a compress to his bruises.
It also occurred that he didn’t care.
“I have to pack.” He mumbled simply, cutting her off. She stood, slowly and awkwardly.
“Oh…okay.”
He nodded, stalking back across the yard and up the steps.
As he passed her, Blythe reached a hand out to his elbow, stopping him but not compelling more than that—his eyes stayed fixed ahead.
“I love you, Greg. I love you very much.” She whispered, pressing her fingers into the grasp on his arm.
That made him turn his head and regard her with a deceivingly bland expression.
She was apologizing, as much as she ever could or would.
I love you--please forgive me for the rest of it, for letting him.
He could have screamed at her, unleashing the anger and acidic hate that was coiled in his gut. But frankly, that was an effort his heart wouldn’t be in; his anger had dissolved into unenthused bitterness long ago.
He could have told her he loved her, too, hugged her, so that she could feel at least a little absolved. That way, maybe, in years to come after his father was dead, they could rebuild their relationship. That would require a lot of time, a lot of unasked questions asked, and undoubtedly, old pain brought screaming back to the surface.
Faced with that, he stared into his mother’s pleading eyes and said nothing.
He was leaving in the morning, and never coming back. She didn’t realize that, that he was going to leave it all in the past, trapped in the blackness of the backyard, or in the house to die a choking death in the upstairs bathroom. That would be hard on her when she figured it out, but then, he wouldn’t be around to feel guilty.
He was removing himself, just like she had done so many years before, so there would be no more hurt.
No more you know how your father is, no more he’s an unhappy man, or he loves you but can’t show it, or from the later years he can’t help it, he’s been broken, he’s so troubled, or any one of the other plethora of hollow rationalizations she kept on tab for each time his father used him as his personal prisoner of war.
And there would be no more wondering why she never, not once, stopped him.
*
Lisa (“This ship sailed long ago.”) – 1988
He shouldn’t be going after her. It was stupid, pointless—she wasn’t going to take this shit from him. That had been why he did it in the first place.
But for some reason he found himself fumbling with his zipper—a dangerous task in a poorly lit lab office—as Mandy straightened her tousled blonde mane.
“Who was that?” she asked distractedly, not the least bit embarrassed at being caught on her knees with her head in a man’s lap, which had been part of her initial appeal.
Opening his mouth, he thought better of it. Another pointless gesture. So he shook his head dismissively instead.
Mandy crossed her arms over her ample chest and frowned.
“Must be someone. You didn’t even let me finish.”
He contemplated just driving back to his apartment, the deed done, the break made, and actually drove about ten minutes in that direction before pulling a decidedly illegal U-turn and changing course.
Her roommate, a giantress but a babe nonetheless named Nicole, answered the door. The stench of her hatred was so powerful he almost had to step back.
“Look, I know you’re all about protecting the Sisterhood, but if you could just tell her I’m here—,” before he could finish his entreaty, she moved to the side, though retained her hostile stance of I-will-castrate-you-at-the-first-opportu
As if to explain why she wasn’t acting on this desire, she informed him crisply, “She told me to let you in if you showed up.”
Puzzled but relieved, Greg slid past her cautiously and strode to the back of the apartment.
Bracing for an onslaught, he let the door shut audibly and even though she jumped slightly, her look to him was composed. It was deliberately brief, and even if her eyes were still showing remnants of a crying jag and her lips were puffy—she chewed them when she was upset—it was a relief not to have her freaking out presently.
However, when she muttered, “Hey, Greg,” he felt his chest tighten.
“Hey…” He greeted cautiously, sensing a trap. He edged toward her, letting his bag drop on the desk chair—its usual inconvenient spot—and only stared.
“I redid the, uh,” she swallowed, but continued to bore her bright eyes into the paper clutched in her fingers, “section about my clinical time last summer. I sounded too pretentious—I don’t want to be off-putting.”
He came to a halt about two feet from her, standing at the foot of her bed.
“Okay…” he watched as she moved to her desk, nudging his bag to the side to sit and scribble some notes.
“Do you think I should keep the bit about the Henry trials? Those results didn’t come back yet, and if they don’t come back with at least a thirty percent—,”
“—You’re seriously talking about this?”
She was seated facing away from him, but he was able to perceive her tiny frame stiffen under the slightly oversized tee shirt.
“Yes.” She replied through gritted teeth. “I’d still like your help with my application. You got into Hopkins—once.”
Furrowing his brows, Greg crossed his arms.
“Didn’t realize you were the look-the-other-way type.” He pressed.
After a horrified pause, she slammed the paper on her desk and stood, turning on him.
“Do you want to talk about it, Greg? Want to brag how you just met her ten minutes before and she was still willing to go down on you? What do you want?” she demanded, her voice quickly rising. Her whole body was trembling now, her fists clenched, and Freddie Mercury’s mocking smile on the front of her tee shirt emphasizing his wretchedness.
“So you are upset.” He spoke with deceiving ease, “I was beginning to think you didn’t care.”
Now he was just hurting her because he couldn’t think of anything else to do, because he felt guilty now but it was too late so he might as well put this failed experiment to an end.
He didn’t know why he’d ever thought it was a good idea.
Upon meeting her he’d felt a sense to keep his hands off—not just because she was an undergraduate but also because she was her and something he felt he wouldn’t be able to easily disentangle himself from—but it had been one of those things that had to happen.
Because she was under his skin, all the time, ever since they met—and on the rare occasions when it wasn’t driving him up a wall, it was still making him crazy.
And now, before he could brace himself, she strode across the room and grabbed his shirt in her fists, dragging his mouth to hers in the same motion. She did it with force, and even bit him—hard.
He was glad for her anger—she was entitled, and it would make things easier.
Unfortunately it didn’t last long. After a few minutes of struggling against each other and forceful oral assaults, a tiny sob leaked into his mouth from hers.
Pressing his palms to her shoulders, he set her back enough just to breathe, “Lisa…”
“Stop it!” she snapped, tears streaming unabashedly from her eyes and her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
“Calm down.” He instructed, about to smooth her cheeks with his palms, but was cut off abruptly when she cracked him across the face.
“I hate…” she seethed through tears not of hate but unadulterated hurt, using her whitened fists to rhythmically pound into his sternum.
Managing to wedge his hands under hers and regain control, Greg held her fast until she wasn’t cursing him or trying to hurt him anymore, just crying.
Sobbing, really, so hard that he feared for her brain cells and their oxygen deprivation.
When she finally calmed down—five agonizing minutes later—he slowly released her and spoke first.
“I’ll go.”
She only pressed her hands to her face as he moved past her.
He’d asked for this, he’d known even before Mandy was tugging his zipper down that this was how it was going to end—he just didn’t plan to be around for it.
But he was, and of all the emotions dueling in his gut, regret wasn’t one of them. He’d had to come. She…deserved that.
He was just about out the door when he heard a faint, “No.”
When he turned and frowned at her response, she just shook her head.
“You can go, but don’t…don’t because of me.”
“You wouldn’t rather—,”
“No,” she cut him off, giving her eyes a last wipe with the back of her hands. “It’s not…I’m not surprised.”
Mouth ajar, Greg wondered who had swooped in while he wasn’t looking and snatched the woman who had just moments ago been punching him in the chest.
“You’re not going to string up some Greg House voodoo dolls and chant?” he asked seriously, the joke more for himself than her.
Smoothing her palms down her tee shirt, Lisa shook her head.
“There’s no point. There never really was. This was inevitable.” Moving calmly back to the desk, she picked up her application and pen.
“All’s forgiven?” he asked incredulously.
“There’s no reason to keep talking about it.” She informed him, her voice unmistakably sad but her control steady and sure now as she began taking more notes. “You’re you—you’re House—and you’ll never be anything else. I knew that, I always have, and it was stupid of me to think that if we…”
She trailed off, and turned to him, her eyes soft as she unknowingly caught her lower lip between her teeth.
He shook his head slowly. “No. Keep going with that thought, and say bon voyage to this ship.”
Releasing her lip, Lisa nodded slowly.
“I will.” Collecting her application, she inhaled deeply. “Now can we get to work?”
*
Stacy (“With you, I was lonely.”) – 1999
She came home from work and didn’t say a word.
He didn’t either, but that was business as usual as of late.
She politely shut the door gently behind her, hung her jacket on the coat rack, set her briefcase on the desk, and proceeded directly back to the bedroom. He watched it unfold in the reflection on the television screen, but didn’t take any action.
He was still clumsy with the cane, and figured following her like a peg-legged pirate wouldn’t create the most striking figure. So as the faint sounds of her rustling in the bedroom and then in the bathroom and then back to the bedroom prickled in his ears, he remained seated and did nothing.
The 6 o’clock news theme was coming to jangling, canned-jazz life when she stepped in front of the television.
“I’m going to stay at a hotel tonight.” Her crossed arms told him, as he didn’t bother to lift his gaze from them.
Once again, he didn’t say a word. After a satisfactorily insulting amount of time passed, Stacy reached down and turned the television she’d be mostly blocking anyway off.
“Do you even give a damn?” she asked, her voice strained but no tears in sight. She didn't cry—she had no reason to. She was the better person here, the one making the stand, the one taking control of her life—and she’d obviously thought it over, made her peace.
Raising his eyes and swallowing, his mouth hot with fever and bitter with pills, he shook his head.
“Wouldn’t recommend room service after 10. The fee is ridiculous.”
Pressing her lips so tightly together the color of them disappeared, Stacy nodded.
“Right. Of course not.” She moved away, arms still tightly crossed, and strode to the bedroom, shouting, “But then, Greg, when I leave, who are you going to blame for all your problems?”
His face contorted in bitterness, his stomach somersaulting.
“Right. What would I do without all the condescension and patronizing bullshit if you’re gone!” he shouted.
When she reemerged, she had her overnight bag in her hand, but came to a halt in the doorway.
“That anger is going to consume you, Greg, and kill you faster than the damned Vicodin.” She spoke calmly, pride the only thing keeping her anger and devastation in check.
“Lucky me. I hear liver failure is a bitch.”
She breathed deeply, straightening her long frame.
“I wish you cared.”
Squinting at her, he was about to speak, unleash another barb so that his blood wasn’t the only one spilled, but she cut him off.
“Not even about me—I know that’s a lost cause. I wish you cared about you.”
Letting his chin drop slightly, he pursed his lips. Any words he could have conjured in that moment hurled themselves back down his throat.
Ironically, it seemed like his silence upset her more.
Tears—but no sobs, no real crying—blossomed on her dark lashes, and a small whimper hiccupped in her throat as she moved around to the front of the couch.
He straightened, prepared to compensate however he could for her height and his current condition, but before he could properly do so, she lowered herself to her knees between his so they were eye-to-eye, and pressed her cool hands on either side of his prickly face.
Her hands smelled like cocoa butter, that ridiculous stuff she kept in her desk, in her purse, in the bathroom, and in various other places in their world even though her skin never seemed to need it.
And now, the smell of it pervaded his senses as the silky pads of her palms and fingers smoothed the irregular folds and planes on his face slowly, her tear-sparkling eyes following their motions.
“I love you.” She said, though he wasn’t sure if the words ever became vocalized or if her trembling lips just mouthed them.
Despite wanting to pull himself away—and even moreso to push her away—House was anchored on the couch, in her embrace, of sorts.
After a few moments, she slowly brought her forehead to his, closing her eyes and running her fingers up over the skin of his temples and settling them into the scraggly edges of his hair.
All he would have had to do was press himself forward an inch—less than, really, probably just the space of breath—and he could kiss her.
But it wouldn’t matter. Stacy wouldn't do something like this if she hadn’t thought it through, and if she’d thought it through, a single stupid kiss wasn’t going to change her mind.
So he breathed deeply, committing the cocoa butter and creamy coffee smell of her to memory, before sitting back, leaving her and himself cold.
She remained knelt before him for a long beat after—not looking anymore hurt than she had before, which confirmed his belief that he couldn’t have changed her mind even if he tried—before slowly rising.
“Take care of yourself, Greg. For you.”
A sour, humorless laugh chuffed harshly from his throat, and she flinched, but didn’t say anything else.
She pressed a kiss to the tips of her middle three fingers, then drew them across his cheek feather-light as she made her way back around the couch to get her bag and go.
*
Allison (“...you just couldn’t love me.”) – 2004
In retrospect, asking Wilson for dating advice was like reading his horoscope.
Any idiot knew to compliment a woman every way that was even slightly believable—he had had a date or two, even some sex (for free), in his life.
In retrospect, he should have picked Cuddy’s brain. But then, all the little demons would have escaped and he would go down in history as the Pandora of Princeton.
No, he was better off just doing this off the cuff—even if that felt like traveling into a minefield blindfolded.
This image in his mind, he snuck a glance to the passenger’s seat.
She was relaxed, totally at ease, her one arm resting on the ledge of the window and propping up her chin as she watched the scenery pulse by.
Little minx.
How she’d managed to manipulate him into this was beyond him, but he wasn’t oblivious enough to think that an element of it wasn’t that he wanted to.
But there were still a couple vexing points. Vexing points that included but were not limited to the fact that she was, literally, quicksand—quicksand with legs up to her armpits, an ass that wouldn’t quit, a face that was carved into many a Viking warship, and a way of looking at him that made him aware of his own breath and blood and skin, his own humanity.
The fact remained, however, under all of that, she was quicksand. If he got too far in, past his ankles, he’d never get out.
And it would be her problem, in the end, because he was getting too old to fight, to keep pushing people out.
He would let himself consume her—he wouldn’t even have to do much. She liked the broken, the wounded, and if he let her, she would devote herself to fixing him because she would never stop to think, not even for a second, that he couldn’t be fixed.
And a part of him could—would, wanted—to let her.
Because he was getting old, and tired, and the concentrated effort of pushing out people was getting exhausting.
But if he let that happen, if he let himself sink into the enveloping abyss of being cared for, it would ruin her. She survived the first husband—he only lived a year, and he seemed like the type to embrace the last months and do things like sky dive and travel and say meaningfully sentimental things.
House would do none of that, and while his death was probably going to be premature, it was by no means going to be soon. Work would consume his days and his own torment—the leg, the drugs, the memories of darkness and ice water—would consume his nights, and he’d lash out at her, for no other reason than she was there.
Or worse, he’d ignore her. While she probably thought he’d open up even more when they weren’t “just” co-workers, the truth was his co workers had always been a privileged class—look at Cuddy and Wilson—over everyone else, because everyone else was out there, beyond the safety of the numbers and facts of medicine, where he had no clue how to function.
So he’d work, and ignore her, and she would only feel worse because he wouldn’t be fixed. He was on a downward spiral and nothing was going to reverse that—but she would refuse to accept that, even entertain the notion.
And someday, she would find herself sitting next to her son on their back porch, in the cover of darkness and the simmering summer heat, rubbing his shoulder and whispering words of comfort, words of comfort like, you know how your father is.
Her eyes quickly left the window when he shifted in the driver’s seat.
“Leg cramping?” she inquired quickly but quietly, concern bundling her words.
“Yeah.” He wedged the orange bottle from his pocket, popped the lid with the tip of his thumb, and knocked two back.
When he reached for the lid, she interceded, taking the bottle with a sad half-smile, and slowly replacing the lid herself.
Giving her a funny look—since at work she always flinched, just a little, when he dosed—he watched as a very familiar expression formed on her face.
“Whatever helps.” She told him with a soft, sad shrug and an accepting half-smile.
“Right.” He muttered, driving the rest of the way in silence.
He knew what he had to do. He knew for months. And little ways, he tried to get it done—tried to make her see the truth, the inevitable House-ness that wasn’t going to be eradicated or softened but would, if anything, grow more impenetrable and callous.
But no matter how much he knew he had to do it, he couldn’t quite bring himself to, not for sure. He couldn’t bring himself to make that grand gesture that would sever her attachment, her care.
So he did it slowly, over months and years until finally, she was with someone else, caring about someone else, no longer giving him meaningful stares or quietly trying to reroute his self-guided path to Perdition.
And that was fine with him. It had been since he was eighteen—the less people caring, the less people loving, the less he had to concern himself with doing the same, and someday, he’d be completely free.
Or at least, he’d be completely alone.
He didn’t let himself think about the fact that the two were not necessarily the same.
