What Happened in the End? Chapter 12
Title: What Happened in the End? Chapter 12.
Author: orange450
Pairing: House/Stacy
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Although this story takes place in the future, it was originally written in mid-S3, just after the Tritter arc. It contains some earlier canon references, but takes no account of canon from that point on.
Summary: It's a little over four years since House parted from Stacy in her office at PPTH during "Need to Know". Mark has died, and fate (in the form of Wilson) will place House and Stacy back in each other's orbit. Stacy has an adopted daughter, and House has a new puzzle to work on.
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Wish I did.
Notes: The action takes place four years out from the start of S3 (at the end of a mythical S6), and forms part of how I'd like to see the series end. It was written at a simpler time in the House-verse, and may feel somewhat dated after the S4 finale, but who knows what could happen in two years? I'm trying to make the chapters feel like they could be parts of episodes, and to keep the personalities as in-character as possible.
Eternal gratitude to sassydew for encouraging me to write this story 1.5 years ago. And also for explaining how to bring it over to LJ!
Chapter 12. One Day in Early Summer
They’re spending Sunday in Stacy’s garden. The trees are in full leaf, and Greg is stretched out on the thick grass under one, staring up into the sky. He’s half asleep. Stacy is sitting near him, newspapers spread out around her. Isabella has a playmate over. The two children keep disappearing around the corner of the house with shovels and coming back with rocks that they’re piling noisily under a bush.
“I hope they’re not digging up your foundation,” Greg murmurs drowsily.
Stacy is engrossed in an article and answers him absently. He yawns deeply, closes his eyes and lets his mind drift as he thinks about what happened last week in his office.
She couldn’t answer the question he’d asked her, not with Wilson and Cuddy breathing through the keyhole. He hopes he’s right about what he thinks she would've said. They haven’t returned to the subject since - something is holding them back. But this time they both seem to like where things are going, and neither of them is in a hurry. If he’s learned one thing in a career of solving complex puzzles, it’s that the race isn’t always to the swift. Sometimes you just have to wait - even if you don’t know what you’re waiting for.
Wilson told him to figure out want he wants. He remembers that he was ready for some peace and quiet, right before he called Stacy a few months ago. Is this what it feels like? Peaceful, maybe. But with those kids and their shovels, not so quiet. On that thought, he dozes off.
When he wakes up, Stacy is bringing out refreshments. The playmate has gone and Isabella is helping Stacy, carrying paper cups and napkins down the patio steps. Greg sees her pause on the step above Stacy, and incline her forehead to be kissed. Stacy notices that he’s awake and watching them.
“It’s our kissing step,” she explains. “Makes it easier to reach.”
She places a bowl of fruit, some cookies and a pitcher of lemonade on the grass. Greg stretches lazily, and reaches for a cookie.
“Beulah, peel me a grape,” he drawls, and opens his mouth for her to drop one in.
His Mae West impression doesn’t impress her.
“Peel your own grape,” she retorts, and before he can stop her, she grabs an ice cube from the pitcher and shoves it down the neck of his tee shirt.
He glares at her.
“I’ll fix you,” he growls as he fishes it out.
He beckons to Isabella. She comes over, and he whispers to her. They speak in Spanish, so quickly that Stacy can’t follow most of what Greg is saying. She gathers that he’s trying to convince Isabella to do something, but Isabella keeps shaking her head and saying, “no, no, Mama won't like it.”
Finally he gives up, and looks over at Stacy.
“You know, you’ve got this kid terrorized,” he says.
She gives him a withering glance.
“She’s not terrorized, she’s just more mature at five than you are at fifty. Or than you’ll ever be, if you live to a hundred and fifty. And that’s a sad statement.”
Greg sticks his tongue out at her, and turns back to Isabella.
“So what does Mama like?” he asks her, switching into English for Stacy’s benefit.
“Mama likes when I pick up my shoes from under the table, and when I finish my milk, and when I say Buenos Dias to Mrs. Morgan next door, and when I don’t color crayon pictures on the wall.”
“Do you really draw on the walls?” he asks her in awe.
He sounds like this is the best idea he's heard in a long time, and Stacy rolls her eyes. Greg is funny, but she’s not sure what kind of an influence he might have on Isabella. As it turns out, she doesn’t have to worry.
“I did when I was little,” Isabella is confessing, somewhat shamefaced. “Mama didn’t like it.”
Greg continues the question and answer session. Isabella waits expectantly, clearly enjoying his attention.
“Who does Mama like?” he asks.
“Mama likes Tia Kathy.”
Greg recognizes Mark’s sister’s name from his medical history file.
“Mama likes Mrs. Otero and Mr. Alcieri.”
He’s heard Isabella’s teacher’s name before, but not the other guy.
“Who’re they?”
“My teacher and Mama’s teacher,” Isabella answers proudly, pleased that she and her mother both have teachers. “Mr. Alcieri has a sword that Mama is allowed to touch.”
The fencing coach. His foil better be his only sword that Mama is allowed to touch. Still, from the picture on her mantel he looks about five foot two and close to ninety. Can’t be too dangerous.
“Who else does Mama like?”
“Mama likes Tia Lisa and Tio Jaime.”
He gives a crack of laughter. “Tio Jaime, that’s a good one! I’ll have to tell him!”
He shoots a quick glance at Stacy from under his eyebrows. She probably knows about his conversation with Wilson, the same way he knows about hers. She winks at him as if she knows what he’s thinking, and he turns away to hide a slight flush.
“It was his idea,” she laughs. “He wanted a Latin persona. He says it suits him.”
It’s Greg’s turn to roll his eyes and mutter something under his breath, probably not complimentary to Wilson.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Late in the golden afternoon they're still outside. Isabella’s sneaker has fallen off, and the shoelace is knotted tightly. Stacy has trouble untying it.
“I can’t do this,” she says as she bends over the knot, trying to loosen it.
Greg sits up and extends his hand to take it from her.
“Give it to me, sweetheart."
She looks up, startled, her eyes wide. He’s taken aback, too. The word slipped out so naturally that he didn’t realize what he was saying. He hasn’t said it since that day in the hospital, right before his life changed forever. She also remembers - she’ll never forget. “Sweetheart, I can’t.” That day, those words. They’re burned into her brain like a movie she’s watched and paused and restarted thousands of times, wishing desperately that she could change the ending.
He swallows hard and stares at her intently, trying to decipher her expression. This is how crossroads are crossed, he thinks. This is how fortresses are breached. This is what they’ve both been waiting for.
Wilson told him to figure out what he wants, and tell her how he feels. He has no idea how the pieces of their lives will fit, but he knows that he wants them to work on this puzzle together. He may not be able to erase the past, and he may not be able to see into the future, but he knows the words that come next.
“Give it to me, sweetheart,” he says. “I can.”
Wordlessly, she holds out the shoe. With one hand, he takes it. With the other, he takes the hand that was holding it.
TBC
Author: orange450
Pairing: House/Stacy
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Although this story takes place in the future, it was originally written in mid-S3, just after the Tritter arc. It contains some earlier canon references, but takes no account of canon from that point on.
Summary: It's a little over four years since House parted from Stacy in her office at PPTH during "Need to Know". Mark has died, and fate (in the form of Wilson) will place House and Stacy back in each other's orbit. Stacy has an adopted daughter, and House has a new puzzle to work on.
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Wish I did.
Notes: The action takes place four years out from the start of S3 (at the end of a mythical S6), and forms part of how I'd like to see the series end. It was written at a simpler time in the House-verse, and may feel somewhat dated after the S4 finale, but who knows what could happen in two years? I'm trying to make the chapters feel like they could be parts of episodes, and to keep the personalities as in-character as possible.
Eternal gratitude to sassydew for encouraging me to write this story 1.5 years ago. And also for explaining how to bring it over to LJ!
Chapter 12. One Day in Early Summer
They’re spending Sunday in Stacy’s garden. The trees are in full leaf, and Greg is stretched out on the thick grass under one, staring up into the sky. He’s half asleep. Stacy is sitting near him, newspapers spread out around her. Isabella has a playmate over. The two children keep disappearing around the corner of the house with shovels and coming back with rocks that they’re piling noisily under a bush.
“I hope they’re not digging up your foundation,” Greg murmurs drowsily.
Stacy is engrossed in an article and answers him absently. He yawns deeply, closes his eyes and lets his mind drift as he thinks about what happened last week in his office.
She couldn’t answer the question he’d asked her, not with Wilson and Cuddy breathing through the keyhole. He hopes he’s right about what he thinks she would've said. They haven’t returned to the subject since - something is holding them back. But this time they both seem to like where things are going, and neither of them is in a hurry. If he’s learned one thing in a career of solving complex puzzles, it’s that the race isn’t always to the swift. Sometimes you just have to wait - even if you don’t know what you’re waiting for.
Wilson told him to figure out want he wants. He remembers that he was ready for some peace and quiet, right before he called Stacy a few months ago. Is this what it feels like? Peaceful, maybe. But with those kids and their shovels, not so quiet. On that thought, he dozes off.
When he wakes up, Stacy is bringing out refreshments. The playmate has gone and Isabella is helping Stacy, carrying paper cups and napkins down the patio steps. Greg sees her pause on the step above Stacy, and incline her forehead to be kissed. Stacy notices that he’s awake and watching them.
“It’s our kissing step,” she explains. “Makes it easier to reach.”
She places a bowl of fruit, some cookies and a pitcher of lemonade on the grass. Greg stretches lazily, and reaches for a cookie.
“Beulah, peel me a grape,” he drawls, and opens his mouth for her to drop one in.
His Mae West impression doesn’t impress her.
“Peel your own grape,” she retorts, and before he can stop her, she grabs an ice cube from the pitcher and shoves it down the neck of his tee shirt.
He glares at her.
“I’ll fix you,” he growls as he fishes it out.
He beckons to Isabella. She comes over, and he whispers to her. They speak in Spanish, so quickly that Stacy can’t follow most of what Greg is saying. She gathers that he’s trying to convince Isabella to do something, but Isabella keeps shaking her head and saying, “no, no, Mama won't like it.”
Finally he gives up, and looks over at Stacy.
“You know, you’ve got this kid terrorized,” he says.
She gives him a withering glance.
“She’s not terrorized, she’s just more mature at five than you are at fifty. Or than you’ll ever be, if you live to a hundred and fifty. And that’s a sad statement.”
Greg sticks his tongue out at her, and turns back to Isabella.
“So what does Mama like?” he asks her, switching into English for Stacy’s benefit.
“Mama likes when I pick up my shoes from under the table, and when I finish my milk, and when I say Buenos Dias to Mrs. Morgan next door, and when I don’t color crayon pictures on the wall.”
“Do you really draw on the walls?” he asks her in awe.
He sounds like this is the best idea he's heard in a long time, and Stacy rolls her eyes. Greg is funny, but she’s not sure what kind of an influence he might have on Isabella. As it turns out, she doesn’t have to worry.
“I did when I was little,” Isabella is confessing, somewhat shamefaced. “Mama didn’t like it.”
Greg continues the question and answer session. Isabella waits expectantly, clearly enjoying his attention.
“Who does Mama like?” he asks.
“Mama likes Tia Kathy.”
Greg recognizes Mark’s sister’s name from his medical history file.
“Mama likes Mrs. Otero and Mr. Alcieri.”
He’s heard Isabella’s teacher’s name before, but not the other guy.
“Who’re they?”
“My teacher and Mama’s teacher,” Isabella answers proudly, pleased that she and her mother both have teachers. “Mr. Alcieri has a sword that Mama is allowed to touch.”
The fencing coach. His foil better be his only sword that Mama is allowed to touch. Still, from the picture on her mantel he looks about five foot two and close to ninety. Can’t be too dangerous.
“Who else does Mama like?”
“Mama likes Tia Lisa and Tio Jaime.”
He gives a crack of laughter. “Tio Jaime, that’s a good one! I’ll have to tell him!”
He shoots a quick glance at Stacy from under his eyebrows. She probably knows about his conversation with Wilson, the same way he knows about hers. She winks at him as if she knows what he’s thinking, and he turns away to hide a slight flush.
“It was his idea,” she laughs. “He wanted a Latin persona. He says it suits him.”
It’s Greg’s turn to roll his eyes and mutter something under his breath, probably not complimentary to Wilson.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Late in the golden afternoon they're still outside. Isabella’s sneaker has fallen off, and the shoelace is knotted tightly. Stacy has trouble untying it.
“I can’t do this,” she says as she bends over the knot, trying to loosen it.
Greg sits up and extends his hand to take it from her.
“Give it to me, sweetheart."
She looks up, startled, her eyes wide. He’s taken aback, too. The word slipped out so naturally that he didn’t realize what he was saying. He hasn’t said it since that day in the hospital, right before his life changed forever. She also remembers - she’ll never forget. “Sweetheart, I can’t.” That day, those words. They’re burned into her brain like a movie she’s watched and paused and restarted thousands of times, wishing desperately that she could change the ending.
He swallows hard and stares at her intently, trying to decipher her expression. This is how crossroads are crossed, he thinks. This is how fortresses are breached. This is what they’ve both been waiting for.
Wilson told him to figure out what he wants, and tell her how he feels. He has no idea how the pieces of their lives will fit, but he knows that he wants them to work on this puzzle together. He may not be able to erase the past, and he may not be able to see into the future, but he knows the words that come next.
“Give it to me, sweetheart,” he says. “I can.”
Wordlessly, she holds out the shoe. With one hand, he takes it. With the other, he takes the hand that was holding it.
TBC